


Bonds

by ChroniclyFlaming



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Comic), Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: AU, F/M, Slow Burn, alternative universe, because Revan ordered him to, hk ships it, long story, pulling a Bindo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9741308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChroniclyFlaming/pseuds/ChroniclyFlaming
Summary: After the attempt to capture the Sith Lord goes wrong, Darth Revan makes an offer the Jedi, the Republic and the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan are duly obliged to accept.





	1. Chronometer

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!

Jolee Bindo: Well, that... that was the day I met my wife.

Revan Shan: Your wife? You were married?

Jolee Bindo: You know another way to get a wife?!

 

* * *

Bastila set her attaché and bag, fumbled with the weight of stares and her new lightsaber and made sure her cloak did not get stuck in the door of the casual restaurant not far from the Republic’s senate hall. Miraculously, there was even enough room to squeeze into a booth. She shifted and told herself not to forget anything. The papers she had were of enough importance to be taken seriously. Today, the Commanders had given her lots of flimsi and holos to digest and study. Tomorrow, there would be even more.

Even now, here and away from the front lines, she was expected to be diligent. She was a member of the Jedi Order, and things were expected of them. Carefully, Bastila patted the comfortable grip of her lightsaber and made sure it still clung to her belt.

The air smelled of heavy greasy food that should be avoided but she would probably order, along with a salad. She worried (wondered?) fleetingly if someone would recognize her. She wanted no unnecessary praise and laudation, but Bastila had some pride in the Order. They saw hope and the Republic, and in these times, needed it. Lately, the Holonet had taken to projecting her image, her tale, her curious gift across the galaxy, and touting her as ‘The Last Hope of the Republic.’ People some times would address her unnecessarily worshipfully, or demand answers she could not provide. It was better to keep her hood up in such a public area. The Sith had spies, she had been warned. But she was not accosted.

Her simple disguise of a plain brown cloak might be enough it seemed. The rows of people (humanoid and otherwise) seated in white-and-red tables did not gape vacantly at her but instead argued and devoured their food and wanted beer too early for the hour. Pleased, Bastila ordered something messy she would probably regret later and a side of fresh greens and blue milk. The waitress was polite despite the sudden rush of people and smiled warmly at her and asked where she was from and only laughed a little at the amount Bastila ordered.

“You’ve worked up quite an appetite, miss.’”

She had _no idea._

It had been a long time she’d been here, in this sea of life that was disorderly and chaotic. It was not like the Fleet, or the Order. Here, people might give her a curious stare seeing that she was a Jedi, but did not bow and scrape and ask for advice. Yet it also lacked the peace of the Temple or Dantooine. A popular love song was keening overhead, and she struggled to ignore it.

Dantooine. She missed that world, the green rolling hills where she had spent most of her life. It had been a halcyon planet, despite everything. She had become a Padawan there, been picked to apprentice by her Master, had crafted her lightsaber and found the crystal for it there. Even through this war...she still had no Master to replace her last one. Bastila paused and decided not to think about that.

She drank her milk and watched an ad for joining the Fleet come on the screen by the busy counter. Few gave it a glance. There was a flood of impressive ships and steely-eyed heroes of differing races, all looking impressive in orange-black-red uniforms. When a Jedi, young, female, dark-haired and armed with a yellow lightsaber and asking ‘all patriot’ to sign up appeared, Bastila was unsure if was supposed to be a homage to her. The spokewoman had a strong Inner Rim accent that should couldn’t help but feel was not like her own, but closer to Helena Shan’s. Then it returned to a Holo-drama involving two men in love with one woman, but one was suffering from amnesia and the other was the father of her child and the woman was _his_ brother’s sworn enemy? Bastila couldn’t quite follow it and was rather glad of that fact.

She ran her fingers against the table, looking at the clean span between her fingernails.

Bastila should be back at the Order. Soon enough, the Padawan would be joining the Republic Fleet again and they needed her. A trifle of guilt struck her, but was sent away. She needed a minute. Lately, it seemed the woman needed more time alone. After what had happened…the medics said distance was understandable. It was perfectly _reasonable_ that someone who had been through what she had might need space. But Bastila did not _want_ to brood, and emotions were not to weigh on any Jedi’s mind. She knew better. She hadn’t been captured and tortured. Things could have been worse, even as some fretted and stared at her so.

They whispered behind her back, Bastila knew. Not just the curious apprentices but her fellow Padawans and even the Knights treated her a little differently. The Masters asked how she was feeling all the more now. They had plans for her, she was coming to understand. Things larger than even helping the Fleet, after what had happened on board Revan’s flagship. She would be brave, just as she’d told her Masters when they cautioned her about what might happen.

Bastila could admit now she was glad to be by herself.

This was something like peace. Coruscant had not yet been badly damaged by the war. It seemed that even if the Sith came, this place would keep on rolling on. She enjoyed the comfortable seats and the hustle of every day life and people arguing over sports scores of all things. Her meal was hot and filled the plate and smelled like perfection and she would savor it. The Jedi wrestled with a fork and watched a young child drawing and insisted that her tired parents admire every line.

The news breaking in over the Holo made a few heads poke up. People were muttering. The anchor was talking a little too fast, sounding a little breathless, a real flush beneath the careful makeup. A representative from the Sith had arrived, it seemed. A _high-ranking_ representative. Perhaps even a Sith Lord themself...Bastila swallowed too fast and tried to not choke.

But the meetings before had been set much further from Coruscant! But they had been planned in advanced _months_ before, with all sides decided upon a ‘safe’ ground before things inevitably dissolved and it seemed the Empire had only wanted to dangle a distraction before a splintered Republic. The Sith had come too close. They were slipping inside. They were invading, finally. All of them had known this day was to come, but it was happening too soon.

It was her fault. She had not stopped Revan. All those Jedi and soldiers had died for nothing, and countless more would follow.

Then—

The Revanchist.

Bastila felt the fork bend under her grip. Revan looked…not unlike that moment when Bastila had faced them. The confidence was there, even without flourishing a lightsaber. The cowl and face mask added strength to his shorter stature. No one else the galaxy had probably seen that figure shaken and confused, let alone had helped Revan in that moment of weakness.

Then she became aware of the Sith’s surrounding. Revan appeared with the Chancellor, members of the Senate, all looking very serious. The Sith Lord would torture them. Take hostages. Oh, Force. Then, Revan would attack the Order. If they had already, Bastila would have sensed it. Surely, she would know by now. Someone turned down the music, and she was glad.

The voice modifier expanded that voice, made it louder, added a menacing hint of static to the end and hit the true identity of the figure. The figure kept one hand behind their back as he raised the other. A vow. “Hear me, people of the Republic: I have offered a promise to ease tensions between our governments.”

Revan’s _illegitimate_ government.

And of course Revan couldn’t just offer a deal to the Senate and the Council. Oh, no, the Revanchist had loved putting on a _show_. “I urge the Republic to agree to my peace treaty.”

Her heart rose. Maybe…maybe Revan was telling the truth. Maybe she might have contributed…maybe it had been losing Malak that had proved a fatal blow. Maybe Revan had seen the light. The Sith no longer had Malak, and there had been the residual of chaos (not enough, unfortunately) from his apprentice’s loss. Maybe the Masters were correct in the analysis that what Bastila had done would have a lingering effect on the Revanchist. They had feared what damage might occur, but perhaps it was Revan and not _her_ that had been be changed by the encounter?

Yes, of course, she was the one with the Battle Meditation, that gift and only reason why the Republic had been able to last this long. She was the last weapon they had left. She was a thorn in his side, a costly thorn.

Revan _had_ let her go.

There might be mercy under that mask. Common decency. Revan owed Bastila Shan their life. She had, stupidly, foolishly, brashly, warned and helped Revan before Malak shot the flagship both of them had been trapped. But perhaps the Force was finding a way to make what she had thought was a mistake, an opportunity?

...’u _rge_ ’? Who was Revan to urge anyone to do anything? Where did that Sith get the gall that they could order everyone around, anyway? It might have just been a face-saving gesture (ironic, with that mask), but Bastila resented that

“In order for this to be accomplished, I offer a series of trades. First, the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan will be brought before me. We will be joined in matrimony, acknowledged by the Sith Empire and the Republic. If she agrees to this marriage, she will remain at my side, as my spouse.”

Bastila hardly felt her mouth falling open as she stared at the screen.

“Secondly, the Republic Fleet will return to earlier agreed upon boundaries.” The voice was so calm, and relentless. “In turn, an exchange of prisoners will occur, of course. The Republic shall release all planets currently held under my control. The ceasefire will continue once my deal is agreed upon; we will stop our bombardment of all your military bases.”

She continued staring, eyes and mind quite blank. Her fork fell from her grip and clattered to the ground, a thousand meters away. Black light filled the corners of her vision, and crept inward and she couldn’t quite feel her legs. _Two_ thousands meters away.

And still, Revan continued. “You have forty standard hours to agree to these terms.”

No, she hadn’t heard that correctly. No. No. She was just...she had been mistaken. But the reporters, the people inside this room, were repeating his word.

“Did...did he propose to that Jedi Shan girl?” Her waitress asked aloud. “ _Weird_.”

She repeated the Code multiple time, but it did not appear to be helping. She felt for her lightsaber and counted sticky tiles. She tried not to listen to the whispering and the arguments erupting around her. She felt trapped by the weight of all the life. There were aids here, for the Senate, and lawyers, and all had a million things to say. Some people were leaning back in their seats, as though it were just another piece of gossip for them. She discovered her bags that hadn’t been stolen and felt their light weight hanging off her shoulders. She found her wallet and shoved some credits onto the table.

There was only one thing to do: she ran for the Temple.

For once, she could not appreciate the architecture, the pale earth tones of the stone, and the lovely view. A young twilek in blue robes gave her a glance. “Hey, aren’t you…”

“ _Not now._ ”

She took two steps at a time and did not care if she slipped and fell, until she nearly did so and then did care _greatly_. The elevator was slow and full of people and Bastila did not dare trust herself to stay still. She ran for the stairs and was glad that anyone in the way moved thus sparing her having to shove them aside. The Jedi had only been here twice before, and needed to spin around and find a convenient map to show her the correct way.

She wanted to fret and flutter around as she hadn’t even as fires erupted around the ship. How had she been so calm then, facing Revan? She had even made a confident remark, telling the Sith that surely he was to lose. Who the _Force_ did Revan think--he, she, _whatever_ \--were? To demand her...that she _marry_ him, in front of the Senate, that threat so clear? To ask the Republic to turn their back on the Jedi?

Running helped, at first, but now Bastila felt her breath coming short and hot. There were _too many steps_ to this tower. Why did the High Council insist on meeting _here_? Why couldn’t they meet in that restaurant? A ground floor? She resented that she resented them suddenly. They were probably looking for her. There must be Jedi and Republic soldiers desperately scouting for her, and perhaps she should have stayed in that restaurant. A stitch in her side made her slow down, and she cursed her meal.

Or maybe she should have headed for the nearest port and sneak onto whatever freighter was there and—well, that was just absurd. Of course she would never leave. It was just a little fantasy, but Bastila felt ashamed. There were so many people depending on her.

She tried not too obviously her side as she stepped into the correct floor. You knew it from the windows that let in the clogged but natural light. Jedi, security, gave her a stare as they determined if she were a threat, decided otherwise, but continued to look on. They would want her weapon, perhaps? But they let her be. Bastila was glad they seemed to know her, but for once she would rather they didn’t want her to continue being armed.

“Padawan Shan,” one spoke up. “We have been waiting.”

The waiting area here was sterile. Lights, blue and too bright, brought no comfort. It reminded her of an interrogation room onboard the larger Republic ships. Still, she was here, and there was a couch, and the attending Jedi recognized her. They looked pale, and she thought she understood the tension until she saw they did not stare solely at her. There was a Sith soldier here as well, silver-bright, and a pale-eyed officer in black-and-grey. His glance at her was amused, contemptuous. He had surely been a Republic officer at some point, but Bastila did not recognize him. No, he had betrayed their cause and left before she was even old enough to serve with the Fleet.

Then she felt it.

The Force swirled around and _shifted_ and _moved_ to reveal a glimmer. There in the corner of her eye, it appeared, black and sleek, triangular. A breath was let out and her own fists clenched. It looked at her, and slowly crossed its arms. Under the heavy cowl, you nearly missed that mask, shadow and dried blood.

Bastila recoiled.

Though she was acquainted with that appearance, there was something hideous about that armor in this place. Though the Force, Revan _glowed_. His presences was frightening, full, _heavy_. It was _smug_. It was a nightmare. It had no reason to hide itself now. How had Revan gotten here so fast? Why hadn’t she been faster, and gotten more _time_? She should have more time. At least those forty hours she had been promised.

She had to be brave again. She had faced Revan before. She could do it again. She had been brave there, even amongst the death. You can’t win; I won’t let you. Her lightsaber was right there. The Jedi here would not let Revan hurt her. “Wah-what are you doing here?”

It came close. It wanted only her to hear. “ _I have come for you.”_

The voice modifier made the voice boom and echo and Bastila wanted to gulp. She wanted to hide. She wished she hadn’t stuttered. They seemed to be smiling behind going on there, behind the mask. She could see her reflection in the dark visor. Anything might be under there. “I have so many things to show you, Bastila Shan.” 

“I have waited a great deal to finally meet you.” Revan pulled away and spoke louder, to the room at large. “And I don’t believe in the superstition that it’s bad luck to see the bride.”

How dare he, she, _whatever_ , threaten her, and then make jokes—be flippant about this--

 _I saved you_ , she wanted to yell. _I helped you._

The Revanchist inclined its head. “You have heard my offer.”

It was not a question. The door behind Revan were shut, Bastila noticed, and that seemed ominous. What might be behind them? “What have you done to the Council?”

Revan raised hands clad in bronze gautlets, spreading slim arms, as though threatening to blast that purple lightning full of hatred around the room. “I have brought truth, to them and the Republic. You have forty hours.”

She was suddenly aware of how flushed and unsettled she must look, the bags hanging off her shoulders and sweat on her brow. “To _what_? You can’t be serious about your offer.”

The Sith leaned in again. The modifier made whispers all the more ominous. “You will make the decision, Bastila Shan. It is yours. You have earned that right.”

It lingered close, this dark figure, looking down and into her eyes. Bastila still had no idea what Revan looked like under that mask, even as she had saved the hurt Sith, pulled the dangerous monster she was supposed to stop from the attack by his apprentice that surely would have killed them. Was there pity there, or mercy, or hunger? She felt _nothing_ , no pull, no understanding or awareness of what was behind the shined black surface that covered those eyes, despite what the Council had cautioned might have occurred between her and Revan. “And Bastila, I saved _you_ as well that day.”

The Revanchist bowed before her, low, and then left.

 _Liar_.

...they had _not_ —yes, Revan had let her _retreat_ for the nearest escape pod, but sparing her captivity was a faint gesture of goodwill. Even then, Revan was clearly doing that right now with this offer. ‘Thank you, Sith, for not murdering me? Now, I’ll just agree to _marry_ you.’ Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the entrance Revan has escaped through, and she hoped their absurdly dramatic, ragged black cape with its violet underlining caught on the doors and the elevator would stop and trap them inside. She hoped Revan would have to be rescued and then trip on that cloak while going down the many stairs. She hoped for many things at this stage in her life, chief among them that the absurd, _ridiculous_ offer would be refused roundly by the Republic and the Jedi.

“Bastila? Bastila?”

A cringing apprentice gingerly pulled at her sleeve, and Bastila recoiled. In light of everything happening, it seemed she had forgotten other people existed and had petty, worldly expectations from her. “The Masters are ready to see you now.”

* * *

 

“Revan swore to not harm you.”

His vows could be forsaken. His vows _had_ been forsaken.

She stood there, trying to not to be a Padawan, a _young, inexperienced_ girl. Shew as less than a Jedi gifted with a particular talent that’s source could not be explained. A thing, an item, not even a weapon, 

Her reflection caught her eye, and decided to not pay attention to that she stared out through the thick glass of the few windows in this tower. Outside, the wide windows showed a brown and dirty sky. Clouds that never rained hung thick and heavy.

“The Council has much to discuss. Please give us a moment, Padawan Shan.” Master Vandar looked very nearly annoyed, and Bastila had never seen him that way.

She was dismissed, despite her attempts otherwise. “Please, Masters, this decision _does_ involve me.”

But they were not prepared to give her an answer. There was too much at stake. They did not trust her. Her presence would have been a distraction, and she might have become desperate and made a scene. There was a reason the Council had not Knighted her. The mission had not gone according to plan, after all, and perhaps this was punishment. Even as Bastila tried to convince herself otherwise, and knew things were more complicated than a matter of her failure, she was still shamed.

How many had died then, including her own Master, and for Revan to still live, as strong as ever. Bastila should have never helped him. When he had been surprised and weakened, she should have struck him down. It would have meant her life, probably, but the Jedi could have done it. In a second, her blade was in her hand, yellow and white, blazing and righteous and the Sith had no defense as it came down. in this dream, she did it right.

The hallway was dark despite the parallel lines of blue light on the walls and ceiling, and she found the roundness of the walls cold and sterile. She waited, as they had asked. Jedi came to her, Masters not on the Council, Knights, Padawans, apprentices. Some were outraged. Some stared at her, as though wondering, _why her_? Bastila could not honestly answer that question.

“Master Vrook…?”

“We are still deciding on things, Padawan.” The human man’s jaw was tight. “Since Revan was _kind_ enough to broadcast his message, we have to handle the Senate debating the Sith’s offer.”

That could take hours. That could take _years_.

Maybe that was very, very good then.

If, Revan was patience. And when had Revan ever been patient?

Oh, it was absurd, it was ridiculous, it was _impossible_. It could not happen. It would not happen. Jedi did not marry. Sith especially did not marry. Bastila was slowly losing her mind, and Revan had already lost theirs years before, and perhaps they did share a connection and it was dragging her down into insanity. No. No. Bastila would not agree to his offer. Every ounce of her being screamed against it.

Bastila wanted to cringe and hide, and was told by Master Vrook, gruff but not roughly, that she might return to her chambers, but not to leave the Temple. Her room had guards outside it now. Wherever she went, which was to only be around the Jedi Temple, she must be followed by guards that were to make certain no one hurt or captured her. Even during battle, onboard the Republic cruisers, Bastila had been given some freedoms.

Even in the night, when she tried to take a walk around the grounds, she was followed by Jedi who had serious eyes and hands that never seemed far from their weapons. Together, they went to the gym and Bastila lifted heavy things and ran in circles that seemed to shrink with every lap. When she lay on the mat, unmoving, someone came to check up on her and she brushed them off. “Yes, I am alright.”

They were worried about her, the Masters were. Some of them were quite often worried about her. If her own Master was here, he would be most worried of all. He’d always warned her of being too headstrong, too stubborn, too eager to involve herself in matters of all matters and never listening enough, never calming herself enough, even as a young girl that kept squirming at the common dining room table. Too headstrong, too passionate. If he’d been here, would he advice her to agree to this, or would he balk?

What did that mean now? What was the calm, Jedi approach to this all?

It was three in the morning, the chrono told her.

She rested her head against the weight lifting machinery, set high enough to burn her limbs, with the towel as cushioning.

Republic senators wanted to see her, but were barred despite their best efforts. Yet, Bastila knew she would have to speak to them, and others in the Republic as well. She was a Fleet Commander in the Republic and had certain responsibilities with such a commission. There were even rules about _consorting_ with enemy combatants. She could lose her commission, or resign it. If she agreed. But why would she agree? But how could she not?

Cold metal dug into her, stealing away the warmth through her sweaty, form-fitting shirt. When she looked at her boots, her hair threatened to fall and hang and stick to her forehead. She had spent hours in this vast room, as a teenager, like all the others that could use this standard humanoid-shaped equipment. The Masters did not discourage it. Sometimes, everyone needed a space apart from the others if only for a little bit. You could think of tests you needed to prepare for, a certain calamitous attempt behind the pilot seat, wonder where your family might be now, worry about the sudden awkward shape your body was taking as you became a teenager, ponder a friend that acted different or was now gone, or what you were to do, in the future, when you were older and a Jedi Master.

Or relive the reports you had written and told the Masters about a disastrous mission that you were responsible for, and had to answer for, and must explain.

The Republic had laid out the trap. Bastila was to be the bait. She had been a thorn in the Sith’s side for months now, and Revan was eager for the opportunity to stop her. Malak took the opportunity to attack his Master. In the confusion, Revan had been injured and might have died, if not for her reaching out, her acting on instinct to protect the only other living person in the room. Her fellow Jedi had died instead. Even as his ship had been damaged, Revan would avert disaster and turn on the attacker, the betrayer. Revan had not stopped her as she left. The Sith had only stood there, silent, watching as she retreated.

The Council had been torn, when they heard of that fact, but hoped it was a good sign, and were glad she had survived.

Revan could have captured her, and tried all matter of torture to turn her to the dark side. He had done it to countless other Jedi. He had _wanted_ to capture and turn her against the Republic. She would be a vital asset, and could have ended the war for the Sith if she joined Revan and the dark side. With their joined power, they could have conquered the galaxy.

But Revan had let her go.

Oh, no. No. She would _not_. Her mind rebelled and so did every fiber of her molecules and cellular structure. The Force itself would twist around itself and right things to change this outcome. It was absurd, it was ridiculous, it was _impossible_. It was not funny. It could not happen. It would not happen. No. No. _Nope._ Bastila would not agree to his offer. It was not _fair._ Every ounce of her being screamed against it.

She could not do it.

She couldn’t!

Then something whispered in the suddenly chilled air, oh, _truly?_ It chuckled. It sneered. y _ou can’t? Is that right?_

She wouldn’t. Unless. Bastila’s breathe caught and stayed there in her chest. Because there was an ‘unless.’ 

She wouldn’t.  _Except_ . 

She wouldn’t.  _But_ .

She wouldn’t. _Even if…?_ Yes, even if the Republic falls, if countless innocent lives are lost to evil, if every Jedi is butchered or tortured until they fall, if the entire Order crumbles away for a millennium, and it is all my fault, it will be all my fault. Even then. I will be selfish and generations will curse my name. They will say a true Jedi would have agreed, what is one life against so many others. They will ask why I did not help them, the dead and lost, and I will tell that that I  _wouldn’t._

Bastila understood why she had been so anxious, so afraid. It was not because of the pressure in making a decision; it was because that decision had already been made.

 


	2. Silica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading, and thanks for the review/favorites. 
> 
> Douchevick, that's a pretty good line. I might have to have a character paraphrase that at same point...Lumi, glad you enjoyed the interaction between Revan and Bastila since there's going to be so much of it, and glad everyone seems to be enjoying the premise. 
> 
> This is definitely going to be another long story, if not in the same vein as Revanche was.

  
Do you take this woman?  
I don't!  
Do you take this man?  
I don't!  
For the rest of your awful life  
she is your lawful wedded wife  
  
Eternal agony in holy matrimony  
  
\-- Marry Me, The Vandals

* * *

 

Every step brought her closer to them, onto them, _him_ , oh, it was a human, a man in black, a human in a stark black suit cut close to cling and not that infamous armor. The horror of that human face, his human mask. He was a man, just as the Council had told her. She had not been certain of the Revanchist’s gender, given the helmet, the Mandalorian garb. Some whispered that Revan might be a machine, and had been produced in the same mysterious factory that churned out all those droids and ships at the Sith’s command. But he was a man. That brought no comfort. It was just another realization for to tuck away and inspect later.

Then she turned her head and saw the Masters. They met her gaze, and she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Did she want them to look away? She hoped they would not. She took comfort in their presence. They would not let Revan hurt her.

Not yet.

She had to be strong. There is only peace.

It was a strange scene, of Sith and Jedi on either side. Senators with assassins and those supposed-neutral. Some hated this deal, others demanded it be done. They had bickered and fought and all for nothing. Their presence was necessary for this. They were witnesses. They were together to sanctify this union. All the Masters that had come, in exchange for the traditional presence of family. Jedi had no families.

Bastila had seen these events in holos, read of them in books. She might even agree to an extent that such a production was necessary to prove the treaty was being held up on their end, yet she wanted very much to not be here in this chilly room. Had she ever picture this scene after becoming a Jedi and being taught the dangers of attachment? The flowers were mercifully few and the music non-existent right now. She wore Jedi robes, brown, heavy and rather plain, but she would not hide her status in the Order.

If her Master still lived, would he have stopped this, or would he have walked her down the isle personally and whispered that she had to do her duty. She _would_ , she might have whispered back.

Now here she was, deposited before him, with the expectation from most everyone that they would now get _along_. She was ten again, and being forced to play with the younger children as a lesson in humility, leg tethered to a particularly slow six-year-old during the daily laps around the Academy.   

The last time they had met, it may very well have ended with murder. Or capture. She might be his prisoner now, without any agreements and flimsy shields to offer protection. Bastila could be dead or being tortured right at this moment, in another universe. They would have fought, and Bastila could not say how that might have gone if Malak hadn’t intervened. Perhaps she and the other Jedi might have surprised Revan themselves, and under the full direct weight of her will, the Sith might have faltered. Perhaps they would be on Coruscant as they were now, but Revan would be in chains, talking to the Council of redemption, explaining himself and his many ships. That had happened not long ago. Not long enough.

It was better to turn away from the man in black next to her. It would be easier to not stare at him. Instead, the Jedi might look into the crowd and see how _many_ people had arrived. Force, there were too many of them here, and for a second, Bastila wanted to panic. How and why were they all here? Bastila had not invited them; she would not have invited herself for that matter, or Revan. They looked at her, at him. There were cameras that floated and twinkled and flashed. Was that a _Mandalorian_? Scattered humanoids, Cathar and Iridonians and Rodians. Miralukans, so rarely seen, eyes covered as usual. Echani in black, was that mourning, or respect, or simply the garb one was supposed to wear to such an event? What did she know of such things? Arkanians businessfolk she assumed from their outfits smiled without warmth and Selketh still-supposedly neutral in the war stroked their chins and whispered to each other. Republic guards with stone faces, and yellow-eyed Sith in black. Politicians, some that spat at the mention of the Revanchist, some that had insisted the Jedi listen to Revan and consider his offer. Bastila would not forget that. They all watched and waited. The Last Hope of the Republic, again, again.

Oh, it was a parody. It was an awful joke but no one was laughing. Something hysteric rippled through her throat, and Bastila realized she had nearly laughed aloud and perhaps ruined the mood. It was to be a historic day. How often were the Sith and Jedi joined? Only something more monstrous and destructive could get them to become allies. Something tickled her mouth and jaw, and she found herself biting the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Gnawing on her lip didn’t help either. If someone saw her eyes filled with tears, they could never have guessed it was from hilarity. Only she was in on the joke.

Finally, she could turn and face him.

He was shorter than she thought he would be. Out of that absurd cowl and body armor, he looked slim, if not vulnerable, and there had been some attempt at cleaning himself up. Freshly shaved and hair trimmed and combed. An artificial, surely, flush had infused his cheeks and softened a grayish pallor around where the veins were prominent and the skin looked thin. Something dark around his eyes, lining them and highlighting black eyelashes. His eyes…

Her laughter had fled. She thought she might be sick. She should _faint_. That’s what they did in the holos. But she did not. She was not a little girl, but a grown woman, a Padawan of the Order, a Jedi and Republic officer. Falling would not save her. It would only show weakness and they could not afford to reveal more of that. She could not run away.

He _was_ a Sith. He _was_ the Revanchist. He had killed and turned and ruined so many of the Jedi Order. But now, he had turned his full attentions onto her. She would have to face him, every day now, and must be prepared for that. Doubt fled and determination made her stand taller.

From the corner of her eye, Bastila saw him again. You did this.

But it was followed with, _You agreed to this._

That seared and burned against her skin as any lightsaber might have, and she wished, she wished...yes, I did agree but that was for the Republic. For the sake of all those innocent lives. If she had to be sacrificed, so be it. She had sworn oaths to the Republic to uphold and defend it against traitors and those that would do it and its citizens harm. She _must_ do this, even as she wanted to cringe and hide rather than stand here before the views of countless millions. It would be over soon, Bastila had been told. A brief ceremony. And then—oh, a lifetime.

Revan was not even looking at her, however. He ignored the Padawan in exchange for the higher-ranking Jedi standing near as allowed. “Masters.” His bow was perfunctory and smile mocking. “How _have_ you been?”

His accent was startling. Coruscant. Deep and certain, upper class and smug. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like what he was saying either. So high and _mighty_ , his cheeky look meant, yet here you are selling your Jedi away like one would a fatted bantha. “I am glad to see something can draw you from your chambers and deliberations after all.” _I’m winning_ , he gloated with that repugnant smile, _I won_.

Then he turned that gaze onto her. Revanchist was looking at her, politely. For the first time, speaking to her without that mask. “Shall we commence with the ceremony?”

She wanted fire to burn from his eyes. Others had gossiped that perhaps Revan was a droid after all, and perhaps lasers should have shot from that livid reptilian gaze. Scars and a forked tongue and anything but cheer. She didn’t like his face either.

Well, Bastila wouldn’t spare him a second look. They said she had to marry him, not look at him. “Fine.” Her voice came out curiously strong, and she clung to that and was proud of that. She was still strong.

He was staring at him, she could tell. Was he curious, now, of why she was here? Of her reaction? Was he taken aback by her tone? Let him. Let him think she was not complacent, not at his mercy. Revan would regret ever making this suggestion, Bastila would make certain of that. If the Masters…if the Masters could not stop this, and the Republic required it, she would do it. This was her duty, as any battle was. Her life belonged to the Force. There is only peace.

The Republic government official was there to say the formal words. There had been conflict about that, if it should be a Jedi officiating or a third-party, or a Sith as a sign of good faith.

She had practiced beforehand, even as her choked around the words alone and with the Masters and the stern lawyer that wanted to hear every syllable. Say it, Miss Shan. Say it _again_. But now she would say them and _mean them._ Bastila wouldn’t even choke on them as the man before them asked for confirmation. _Do you_ , Bastila, _do you,_ truly? “Yes, I do take this man as my lawful spouse by both Republic and Sith laws.”

As though the Sith had proper laws.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, pointedly looking. Revan wanted people to look and lean in and listen. Bastila wanted to sneer. Leave us in suspense then. Go ahead. _The longer this takes, the longer I get to spend not married to you._ Then Revan spoke, “I take this woman as my lawful spouse by both Republic and Sith laws.”

Her mouth pursed while she looked at the Republic officer, a bureaucrat in the legislative branch who had performed countless weddings and was quite unpolitical as one could be in his position. She wanted to lick her lips or stare away from this man’s professionally blank face, his voice ascetic. She wanted the roof to cave in as well, or for the Sith to finally pull their betrayal so she would know what to do. He was saying things, the man, this stranger that was speaking the words she needed to repeat. Her tongue wanted to fumble, but did not, and wondered if it would be better if she had.

She watched his tug his slim, finely tooled glove off. She could _smell_ him suddenly, under the flowers, and wanted to wretch and shudder.

Bastila held her hand out, and did not shudder when Revan’s rested on top of it, and the white slip of cloth went from wrist to fingertips to tie them together. The vows had been as plain as possible, stripped of sentiment. But there was still this. It was a terrible parody of why he had chosen her. His fingers were cold. She didn’t like how his hand swallowed her own. When the priest spoke, it was to Revan and not them both. “Let this union stop the war.”

Please.

She wanted to comfort him. She wanted to tell the entire Republic that, and assure the galaxy that no more lives might be lost. She would make sure of it. There was strength in that. The Force offered strength, the cool breeze against her brow, and she must let it show her the way. The Padawan was not convinced this must be the right thing to do, but perhaps there was a reason she and Revan had formed a Bond after Malak’s betrayal and the mission had failed. Perhaps there might be a reason to this madness, and perhaps she might not regret the both of them surviving.

Bastila Shan would not go into battle afraid, thus she would not go into a marriage cowering and frightful.

* * *

 

The music was opulent and unnecessary. A singer squalled and the instruments sung her ears. Her headache grew. Overhead, the chandeliers sparkled and the lights blazed. How the lights glowed. Outside, it was even nicer, and she had regretted coming inside for many reasons. They left you exposed, and slightly blind, fevered. It all made you want to sweat.

With the music playing, it seemed to be expected to dance, Bastila understood. They put food in front of her and it was expected she would eat.

But she would not.

She had no wanted any of this. The ceremony had been painful enough. A dinner afterwards was only salt in the wounds. There had been parades, she knew. Celebrations. A holiday declared, though people must surely have a wary fete. No one should ever trust the Sith. Yet Revan had insisted on a reception, refreshments, a _party_.

Everything here was of fine quality. Supplied by the Sith, she sneered. _Stolen_ by the Sith. The knife caught her eye and she took in her shadowed eyes in that shining silver. Something dark flickered inside, and she pushed it aside, telling herself _no_ , it was not the right time, and if such a thing occurred, it must be self-defense. Instead, Bastila would focus only on her reflection. Her expression set, not upset, weeping, though certainly not happy…

Was she supposed to cry? Perhaps she might, later. For now, she wanted this to end. Let the politicians dance and laugh and toast the union of the Sith and Republic, the Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan and the Dark Lord Revan. They were absurd. Only restraint kept her from fidgeting. After the initial shock had worn off, and then the terror had seeped away, and even their hands had come unbound, there was little else to grab her attention. She didn’t have to say anything anymore.

It had been a long month before Revan had even made his proposal, and a longer evening. Her boots, new and without those comfortable creases yet, scraped against the marble of the floor and she made herself stop.

Amazingly, she was growing _bored_.

Everything before her was meaningless, a gaudy bauble to distract all of them from the horror of this situation. Let these people laugh and drink. It was tedious enough for her to pay attention to Revan even.

She looked upon her husband.

He was not handsome, and she was oddly glad of that fact. It would have been a little too grotesque even as she heard people complimenting and fawning over how he fine-looking looking he was tonight. Revan was not attractive, but instead _striking_ , with deep-seated eyes, high-cheek bones, a heavy mouth made for smarmy and duplicitous amusement. Revan liked to smile. He looked curiously young, with a roundness to his sunken jaw where there was none in his cheeks. There was a dimple set into his chin. Some of the younglings, those not yet Padawans, had gossiped of his appearance, and compared him to Alak. Alak had been known. His face had appeared quite often, and he had approached a number of Jedi at the Academy in hopes they would join. And many had. Wasn’t that why they were here? Alak had been so certain, his sincerity had been convincing, and he and Revan had stolen the best of the Order.

Alak was dead.

That was also her fault, in some way.

What had she expected? Something more like Alak, of the blue-eyes and square jawed confidence? Or something gray and dead-eyed, yellow sharp teeth and hisses of a kinrath? She knew little of the man, besides the warnings and stories.

This stranger was at ease. If he sensed her emotions (and perhaps he could), he made no comment. His remarks were saved for others. He made mocking gestures towards the remaining Jedi to provoke them. He sipped at his drink, and even then only when a toast was made. Through the Force, he was contained, quiet and Bastila resisted the urge to reach out through their Bond; she had been told to do that only if necessary.

Even so, Bastila could feel him through the Force that filled the room so uneasily. Over there, the Jedi were at a resting state, attempting harmony and wary calm, and over _there,_ the Sith romped and were unabashed about their wild emotions of anger, resentment, smug triumph, and they taunted with every smile and toast. Revan felt like neither. He was as deep and still as the ocean. Not peaceful, no, but contained. He was the black tide pulled away from shore. She feared what happened when it came rolling in.

The other Jedi remained close, with watchful eyes. They had been allowed their lightsabers by a magnanimous Revan. There were Masters, Knights, all prepared for the worst—even as they told her that no harm would come to her. Master Vandar remained, old, ancient, and careworn. Bastila watched him, heart heavy. She worried for him, and took an odd relief in that.

Strangers, politicians and the assorted rich and powerful came to bow before Revan and praise his genius, his suit, his bride. Bastila hid a sneer. Look at the great Revanchist. Look what he made the Jedi do, the Republic do. Beg before his majesty. A man in fine robes came before them to bow and scrape and she wished Revan would end this game soon.

Look at all these people in the room. Useless or conniving. There were people here who had themselves sworn to protect the Jedi, and yet turned their backs when they needed Bastila Shan to perform one more little trick. She had to give up more and more every day, it seemed. A normal life as a Jedi, to serve and protect, to help others, and learn lessons and any chance to become a Knight in order to focus solely on her Battle Meditation, her gift and _curse_ , and only hope there was of slowing the Sith Empire down.

How disgusting, how absurd, it was to sit next to _Revan_ , among flowers and before some rich delicacies set in shiny plates, and act normal. What could she even say? They, countless Jedi, had told her to trust in the Force. But did the Force want this? How could it? How would this be fate or destiny? After all she had done and fought for, to be reduced to a pawn in some game Revan played with the Republic and the Council. No, Bastila would not accept this as something destined by the Force.

In a shiver, the room shifted and spun away, and the roof above crumbled to expose the black emptiness. They floated there, dying and dead, the smothering flames and trembling asteroids. Bastila had been through that graveyard that had been Roche after the Sith had attacked and could recall wanting to not was left of the fleet after that battle. She had been younger then. After the treachery of Foerost when the Jedi everyone had waited and feared had come back, but not as _Jedi,_ and she had walked among what was left of the wreckage that had been Republic ships once. She tasted smoke and ash again, burning fuel, and recalled her Master looked down at her. Calm yourself Padawan. You must look and focus. See what the Sith have done? Do you see why we Jedi must remain vigilante, always? We must stop them.

And for a moment, Bastila was back there, an adult, a Padawan, and gifted with Battle Meditation just as Master Sunrider was, and she would stop them, all of them. Yes, Master. I will. He would call her arrogant and curse her over-confidence, and she would argue that this was necessary, and bow her head in the end. _I will end the Sith._

A stocky Snivvian in a loud suit came up to them and brought her back to this future. Who had invited him in? There had been aliens with the Sith, but they tended to be more humanoid and from members of the race that were stronger in the Force. Revan’s smile was cold. They did not know each other, Bastila understood. “And what can I help you with?”

The Snivvian tipped his glass back. “Why I only wanted to say hello to the happy couple. May your marriage be as long as it is happy.”

Oh, if only. Bastila nearly laugh.

The stocky alien caught her eye and winked around his drink. The charade was a little easier than. Everyone knew it was false, a big fake ordeal that was only for the sake of the Republic. The pretty lights and fancy food was a shoddy disguise. She was still Bastila Shan, a Jedi, and whatever Revan tried to do, he would not change her.

“Have we met?” Revan asked, voice polite.

“No. Can’t say we have. I’m sure we had a few acquaintances in common though.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh, but it was a long time ago. I’m sure you don’t remember them. Whatever happened to that Squint kid? Those _Revanchist_ types?”

Revan’s wide lips spread back from his teeth. Bastila nearly admired the courage of that being down there. She wondered why he was making an effort to respond rather than banishing or killing someone that dared make such a comment. “I am afraid they were lost in the war, snivvian.”

“I see. Which war though, I wonder.” He bowed, to _her_ , and not Revan. “I do hope you will be alright, miss. You Jedi seem to have either the best or worst luck, huh.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t entirely sure what she was thanking him for him, but it was sincere. The Jedi was sorry to see him saunter off, nodding and back-slapping. Perhaps he was a politician?

The smell of flowers was rich, and she wanted to sneeze. Revan looked annoyed, impatient. She was glad, afraid, that something had gotten under his skin. Until Revan placed a hand next to her hers and leaned close. “Are you _tired_ , Padawan?”

Yes, of many things.

“Would you like to retire for the night?” he asked.

Her lips thinned, and she was aware that her breath had caught. She was also aware of how near to her he sat, and where his hand was located.

The Sith looked at her, and she found his stare unsettling. How odd it was, to look into Revan’s _eyes_. “You are tired. You haven’t even eaten.”

She wouldn’t be able to eat for a long time. Her stomach was a hard stone. Tonight would be spent on his ship, despite the protests of everyone else. She did not want to leave Coruscant. Yet Revan wanted her to grow adjusted as soon as possible, as he rejected over the secured Holonet the offer to remain here. That was how they had communicated: via the Holonet. A dozen Jedi, Republic officers and the Chancellor had looked over her shoulder and made sure what was on the screen was correct while she sat there, trying not to flinch at every keystroke.

“I’ll spare you then.” He rose, and bowed. His tone was smooth, and she was startled by how loud his voice echoed. The man could have been a politician as well. “I would like to thank you all for attending. Without you, this would not have been possible.”

The smile aimed for the Jedi was particularly gruesome.

“However,” the Sith continued, “The hour grows late...”

There were bawdy grins from some of the Sith, clad in their grays and blacks, and she warned herself that hate and anger led to the dark side. One woman was smirking openly and making sure to look at Bastila. Her throat tightened, and she was fourteen again, being told the a tedious, unnecessary lesson on anatomy and how childbirth and procreation occurred, and then was seventeen, being examined, being _exposed,_ by Republic nurses that did not care for her complaints that it was not necessary. They told it was for her own health. Same as they did when giving her a shot six months ago, reducing her to a mortal human woman, not a Jedi with a rare gift, the Last Hope of the Republic. Just as they did now. Revan had requested her medical records, she knew, and he had no _right_.

The Padawan could not bring herself to look at the Jedi. Revan had sworn—but he had sworn many things. It would not come to _that_ , everyone had promised her. Consummation was not expected. Yet her throat was dry, and she wished she had emptied her glass of champagne after all, and then taken all the wine offered. Then gone to taste what those Mandalorians had been guzzling.

Was she not an adult? Did she not deserve to drink until she became dumb and oblivious to all of this?

She saw the holo-recorders returning, as though summoned. Perhaps Revan had a queue to allow them back inside. They twinkled and she heard whispering. Bastila grit her teeth, and was sure she looked quite the opposite of any blushing, happy bride. Did she look hostile, scared? She hoped for once she looked mad, or anything but defenseless. Anyone watching had to believe and trust in the Republic and the Senate. And the Order.

They, so many of the Jedi, had not wanted her to agree to this. They agreed it was beneath the Order. They did not offer up their own as sacrificial pawns to Revan. The Jedi did not leave their own to perish to appease a traitorous murderer. The Jedi did not marry. Bastila Shan was the only thing they had to fight Revan, and for him to come in and make demands of her was beneath contempt. But—and the Padawan saw herself there, standing before the Council and the Supreme Counselor, smelling the scrubbed floors and lingering colognes that only the politicians wore—arguing otherwise…’This is necessary, Masters. You heard him. If we can gain peace through this deal, then we must take it.’

She was too headstrong, Bastila knew. Too bold and eager. But she would do the Order proud in this insane, sacrilegious way with all her willpower that some said was her greatest strength, her greatest weakness.

Nothing would happen, she assured herself. With the Bond they shared, Revan could not hurt her without harming himself.

She would survive whatever was to come.

She would live through tonight.

Bastila had thwarted him before. An early attempt at a capture she had slipped from near Alderaan, slipping from the bombardment of Rodia, the Battle in the Gizer System that she had survived, the Republic’s success on Sernpidal. They had not been specifically targeting her, but she had been involved, and survived to tell the tale. Even when she had faced him, on Palanhi, on Mon Gazza and further into the Mid Rim systems, Bastila had survived and _won._ The Republic had been able to combat Revan because of her. The necessity of such battles had only strengthened her resolve and might, and made her stronger. Even the deaths she had seen, witnessed, the ones she had carried to the medbays and seen to and once held the hand of a scared, dying young woman as they waited for the personnel that would never arrive, that had only provided a firmer resoluteness to end this war.

All those dead, soldiers and civilians. Jedi. They might not be avenged, but there could be _no more_ to join their ranks.

“Do you want to say goodbye to the Jedi?” A curl of hair rested on his forehead. He looked young.

Her hands found each other, and locked and tightened. Somehow, she was standing up, feeling the eyes on her, the heat from above pressed into her skull and threatening to cook her brains and destroy her prized Battle Meditation right here. “Yes, alright, if you insist,” she was mumbling. She didn’t feel a Fleet Commander or the Last Hope of the Republic. She felt young and short, a child playing hero again in this stiff robes of dun and gold, her lightsaber for the first time suddenly too large for her clammy hands.

Yet she did find herself capable of walking and going to the Masters. She would stand there, tall, back straight as she looked them in the eye. Bastila did not cling to any of them as a weeping youngling might have. They were right to trust her and agree with this for the sake of the Republic and Order. Her fear was meaningless. There is no terror, there is peace. There is the Force. Take strength in that. The Sentinel bowed. “I will return to the Order, Masters.”

Then she went back to Revan.

He pulled a cowl over his head, to look _dramatic_ she was sure, then led her through the halls, and Bastila was glad, then worried, that people followed them, armed with questions and recorders. He was crooked smiles and ease, and when she stretched out with her senses, wanting to see Revan’s intentions, he touched back with a thick, heavy _warmth_ that disturbed her. It was as intimate as if he had cupped her shoulder and ran a hand down her arm. For the first time that evening, Bastila recoiled, and received curious stares from these reporters that crowded around.

“We will return to my flagship,” Revan was telling a newsperson, a quarren in fine blue robes. “To travel apart from, within reasonable expectations. We will be going to various worlds, both Republic and Empire. I suppose you might call in a honeymoon, yes.” A low chuckle that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. He was looking at her. “Bastila and I need time to adjust to one another. Things will be quite different for us both.”

Bastila turned away.

“Did you two have a relationship before…?”

“No!” Bastila spat. “Of course not.”

An obstinate, false smile shone at her. The Jedi resented her clinging purple dress and makeup and the three inches she had on Bastila. The woman was not to be deterred. “Then this must have been some surprise.”

Oh, yes, what a surprise.

“Bastila and I did not have a relationship, exactly, before I proposed.” You could see the impression of his dimpled chin beneath his cowl. “Though I was quite an admirer, from afar.”

Someone cooed, another chuckled, and despite Bastila’s Jedi training, she very nearly hated them. Some of these had reported on Revan’s evil, and others were sympathizers or propagandist, and all must be forgive by all. She willed herself to control and breathed in, out. Let them talk and chatter and make lies, she and the Jedi would know the truth. Then another nudged her, and she saw into the bright white dumb orb of a recorder. “...and you, Miss Shan?”

“It’s Commander Shan,” she corrected.

“But aren’t you resigning your commission...?”

“The Fleet Commander is just getting used to her new station,” Revan offered. “She has been quite the prominent little fighter for the Republic. She will find this peace a welcome respite, though perhaps hard to adjust to?”

Bastila had no reply.

They left the reporters behind to enter a small room of heavy natural wood furniture with the sweaty man that had officiated the ceremony. It took Bastila a second to realize where she recognized him from, and that was either alarming, or necessary, or both. She signed documents with a hand that wasn’t quite her own. It reminded her of the earlier forms she had filled out, when this was being decided upon. There, then, she had read every line and word and wanted copies of everything. Even in flimsi. And there had been thousands and thousands of words about the treaty. She had wanted them posted everywhere. It would not have truly mattered, if the Sith decided to forgo their end of the deal, but the truth did matter.

Bastila had already carefully signed, inspected all such paperwork, with much gagging over the worriment of ‘heirs.’ This was nothing, more of the same. She could just glance over the screen with its official emblem and symbol of both Republic and Sith, and duly sign away her name. It seemed according to these papers that she was apparently his heir and he hers. Ah, yes, he was now in line to inherit her new double-bladed lightsaber, her training leathers, the ribbons in her hair and these boots. There was also a bag of clothing and datapads being carried on board somewhere that he was also entitled to, should she die. Meanwhile, she stood to inherit this entire evil empire full of murderers and traitors she was also sworn to defeat should Revan expire.

Revan put his own mark, and Bastila wondered the legalities of signing with an assumed name meant anything—until she noticed that what he’d written down seemed longer than it should be. Her curiosity went unsatisfied as the Dark Lord of the Sith pushed the datapad back towards the bureaucrat.

Then the Sith was whisking her further away, brushing aware the reporters. It was ‘getting late’ after all, and he and Bastila needed ‘time alone.’ She cursed them all, especially him. He was taking her back to the ship. She would reside there for too long. So many standard months there. And then back to Coruscant. They had laid out the next year for her, and both had agreed, eventually. The Sith had no official world or base of operations (besides the unofficial Korriban), so they would stay on his flagship. Revan had repaired it, he assured her. All the finest safety features and no pesky apprentices to ruin their time together. His grin had been disgusting.

There were Republic soldiers here, ones required to attend for security and as a sign of good faith, but had refused to attend the ceremony. They and the Sith all watched each other, wary. Bastila wished again she could go to them. She wanted to leave with them, and to explain herself, and to join them in her proper place as a Republic officer. She had been a Fleet Commander, and had given these soldiers orders not long ago, not long ago at all. What had happened, and how had things changed so quickly?

“Commander Shan,” someone, one of the guards, called out to her. She and Revan stopped, her with more speed than him.

She knew him! “Carth Onasi.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The smile was careworn and all the more appreciated for that fact. At least someone was taking this seriously, and could make eye contact with her. He looked very nearly the same as it was the last time, the jacket still orange and his hair well-groomed for the stubble on his square chin and cheeks. She was so glad to have seen him. She shook his hand nearly gave him a _hug_. He was good and sane, and she needed that right now.

The older man did look regretful. She knew him, from somewhere. He had no fake smiles or chummy, dirty relief in his eyes. His look to Revan was brief and tight, and she felt his anger. “I am sorry about this, Commander Shan.”

 “It’s Missus Shan now. And I believe its time to show my wife her new quarters.” Revan sketched a polite nod. “Excuse us.”

She grit her teeth. “Yes, excuse me, Lieutenant Onasi.”

They nodded to each other as she was ‘escorted’ away. It was humiliating to be removed from the Republic as an Officer and _given_ to Revan. Ugh. Missus Shan? That was not Bastila. That was her mother. That was Helena Shan. That could not be Bastila.

“Did you two know each other?” Revan asked, as they continued on, bringing her mind back to the present.

They have served on the same ship, but she had hardly spoken to the man. “Not really.”

“I promised to keep my jealousy to a minimum if you two were lovers at some point,” the Sith offered.

She choked. “Of course we weren’t!”

...’to a _minimum’_? Oh, Force, she hoped Revan was not jealous of everyone she talked to, but how could she know otherwise? Why would he be merciful to someone he might consider a rival? How was she to even handle simple conversations with the Revanchist? She wanted to yell and protest with every syllable that he did not deserve to hear her say. He had no right to not wear his mask and walk alongside her and _speak._ The Council had neglected lectures and training on small talk with a Dark Lord of the Sith.

He seemed to dismiss all that, and then her weapon with little more than a small comment and a glance. Was that good, or a way of messing with her mind? Oh, go ahead _Padawan;_ I have nothing to fear from the likes of you. Revan was unafraid to leave his back to her as peeled off a glove and applied his hand to the inner doors of his chambers. That was not a place Bastila wanted to go. Yet she took that step inside.

Now they were alone.

Her hand clenched and unclenched. A sour taste clung to the back of her throat.

“Would you like a tour?” Revan gestured around the cabin. “Surely it must be larger than your room at the Temple.”

It was, but that was perfectly meaningless. She watched his hands.

“If there’s anything you would like added, you’d only have to ask.”

She saw shelves and old, old books and a large screen set where the sunken floor space was over there. A private kitchen that unnerved her; did he wake up in the middle of the night seeking a _snack?_ Couches and a table and a door that led further in and one further out. The domestic floor plan concerned her. Did she want skulls and chains and tomes spotted with blood? Yes, because at least then she would know she was in some place full of malice and evil.

Yes, the walls were black and the rugs red, but even that did not diminished the fact that there was a chance to sit there on a _couch_ and watch the _Holonet_ _while being married to Revan_. She could look out the viewport and read a datapad and be _married_ to Revan. They would have caffe in the mornings together, _married_.

She hoped…she wished that soon he would drop his mask and finally attack. Or simply attack her with lightning when her back was turned. This was what he wanted, to have Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation at his control.

“Would you like anything?” He took his jacket off in one smooth gesture, leaving it across the back of heavy black chair. “I noticed you didn’t eat much.”

Little cufflinks twinkled at her, in bone and silver. A sliver of wrist appeared from underneath his shirt cuffs. Watching her, Revan lifted one hand, peeling his remaining glove off with his teeth. It looked unhygienic and she was annoyed when he stretched out. Did _you_ have a long evening, Revanchist?

He scratched his chin. “We never had a chance to talk. How do you feel?”

“How do I _feel_?” The Jedi Sentinel felt an eyebrow twitch. Soon, she would begin to yell and panic, to say everything she had been coached to not utter, to do everything wrong and let everything rend and split apart. What a relief it would be, to not stand and wear a blank face as others bartered away her life and she could finally be _loosened._ In the end, she would reach for her blade, and find out if Revan was perhaps as unarmed as promised.

“Afraid? Eager? Scared?” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her response.

Yes.

Yes. But mostly angry.

Wait.

‘ _Eager’?_

Revan continue, “Tomorrow, I will show you the rest of the ship.”

Tomorrow.

“You can meet the crew members.”

Somehow, she was finding strength, finding words, finding disagreements and arguments that had fled ever since she sat in a restaurant, listening to Revan offering a deal. It was dangerous, it was a relief, it was wonderful, to hear herself as _Bastila Shan_ again _._ “Listen to me, Sith. I will not help you. That was part of the agreement we had.”

'Agreement’. A kind word to describe an arranged marriage.

“What, were you expecting to be wooed?” The Sith Lord snorted.

No! Of course not. “No. But this is...”

Revan stared, eyes wide, trying for innocence. “We are Bonded.”

Her tongue loosened and she felt dizzy. She was here, somehow, on his ship, talking to Revan about their marriage. “Why?”

“Why are we Bonded? Because of your actions.”

Yes, she knew that. “No. Why...why all of this?”

“That is the question everyone is asking.” He liked making them guess. He would like making her guess, and she felt a bone-deep wariness to combat the growing rage.

“Marriage?” Her voice rose. “ _Marriage_?”

“Yes. Very good, Padawan. That _is_ what happened.” He had no right to sarcasm. It should be taken from him forcibly.

“Why marriage?” Bastila could not seem to lower her voice any, but that was just fine at the moment. “Why _marriage_ —with _me_!?”

He had a trick where he could raise one eyebrow, and Bastila suspected he had practice such a move in the mirror as a snotty teenager. “Why is that so shocking? Our ages are not so far apart. We are both member of the same species. People marry all the time, even in war. It will very convenient.”

Not for her. Bastila might never have expected to ever marry or have any relationship, but there should have been something more than saying some words before strangers and signing her name on a few forms. They had rushed into this so fast; she had not even had the full forty hours to think on his offer. Bastila had been swept up in this, and needed things to slow down. To a crawl. Until the heat death of the universe.

“This is not so strange.” He leaned forward, shirt creasing. “Many peace bargains were sealed with a marriage.”

“Barbaric,” she retorted. There should be no need of that practice in the Republic.

“But effective, perhaps in times of war?” Revan knew all about effectiveness. From turning soldiers to his cause, to fracturing system and alliances, and recreating old grudges as they suited him. Bastila sneered. That remains to be seen with this ‘alliance’, doesn’t it Revan?

Something tensed around his brow. “Would you have performed something different, for our wedding?”

Kriff, but it had been that, hadn’t it?

“There are many ceremonies we could have performed instead,” Revan suggested. “I could have worn a flag of the Sith and swept you up in it, and you could have draped me in that Republic flag. I might have fought the strongest warrior in your tribe or given your father an entire system for your hand.”

Father. Did he hear of this? Had he seen the ceremony? Oh, oh, if her mother saw…yet how could Helena Shan not have watched it, mouth a thin line and disbelief in her pale eyes. Would they _arrive_?

What would she say? ‘Oh, hello, Father, Mother, how have you both been? How have I _been_?’ They had sent her to the Jedi to have her training. Mother had sent her away to be freed of her. But Father had wanted her to see the galaxy and help others. For a moment, she was six and felt her father’s hand on her head, tugging at her jacket, insisting she wore her good pair of boots. She was going on an _adventure_ , and had to be good to these nice people here who were going to take her to see the galaxy. And when would she come back? Never, never. These people were her family now. She was going on an adventure.

Was she still a Jedi? Jedi did not marry. Yet here she was. She was cold all over, and sick and her knees did feel rather weak now.

Oh, Force.

There was one room.

She glanced over her shoulder, with an eerie knowing. There was still one room. Kriff.

“…Or all sorts of other romantic acts. I know of past Jedi that married but since that practice has been so ‘banned,’ the ceremonies have become unfamiliar to the Order as a whole.” The Sith was prattling. “But our vows? Did you notice? I had old documents found and modified for us.”

Nearly a generation had passed since marriage had been so easily performed by Jedi, before their bows were reshaped and they discovered new wisdom on restraint that was so necessary. “For a _Jedi_ marriage?”

“The Sith do not marry.” His smile was thin. “Any vows taken are sworn to ourselves only. It would never have done for our wedding. Our Bond and alliance are much different.”

“Yes. How kind of you.” Ice crept into her own voice, and she was pleased. “I’ll have to remember to thank you for such thoughtfulness.”

“Threats?” But the Dark Lord was smiling. “And I thought you were told to play meek?”

Bastila met his eyes, furious now. If he wanted threats she would give him that, if he thought they were so amusing. She would make _promises_ and see if he kept laughing.

Revan was looking at her, face crinkled with amusement. The young man, this Jedi Knight, relaxed and comfortable. Her husband. Her nerve faltered and she glanced downward. How odd it was, to see her trousers, her robes, these boots. How had they gotten all the way from her room to this place? She was supposed to convince him to spare the Republic, and rejoin the Jedi and the light side, Bastila remembered. That did not seem likely at all.

“Look at me, Padawan.” Harshness pulled away at the draw in his voice. He was standing up, stalking over to her, expression clearing, darkening, intense. He was much too close. He was the Revanchist. “You are strong, stronger than the Jedi think.”

It was not well lit enough in this room. What light there was pooled and gleamed in his gaze, gold-amber. They reminded her for one horrible second of her blade, flashing in the dark and catching on metal with a satisfying _thrum_.

“And you know it, don’t you.” Pleasure pulled at the muscles of that thin face, sculpting it into something reptilian and she was aware again that he had covered his face as well. “There is no need to hide your emotions. You want to punish me?”

His voice dropped, softened, and she saw the sticky black of his pupil. Something tightened his normally loose mouth. “I’ve wanted to _punish_ you since you saved me.”

The Jedi did not dare drop her gaze.

“Rage then. That will give you strength. You may need them, in the coming time. No, Padawan, I do not speak of myself. You have many more things in the galaxy to fear besides _me_.” His eyes were flinty, narrow, and unfocused. He did not see her anymore. He was Away. Bastila resisted the urge to shuffle her feet.

From some deep place, Revan returned with a shake of his head. “You will adjust. You are remarkably resilient, and quite stalwart. You have survived so many of my earlier attempts to _capture_ your attention.”

Force, but she had to deal with a crazed, murderous Sith Lord that also liked to make lame jokes? The Jedi had not offered enough advice, and she wanted to make his stop, so she could read through her datapads, and search on the Holonet for how to deal with insistent fools that smiled in odd moments at her.

“You only agreed to my offer when it was to be my bride, Shan. My equal partner.” He showed those startling dimples. “We must learn to trust each other, and work together.”

He held his hand out. “Can we agree, just here, by ourselves, to get along?”

Bastila did not want to take his hand, but they had already a bond, and were Bound, and married, and it seemed a foolish, needless thing to complain about. Still, she lingered. Revan’s hand encompassed hers again, even more unwanted or unexpected than before. Still, the Sith was amused as he pumped it like a grinning politician. “This is an encouraging step forward.”

Revan met her confused with a raised brow, and she could grow to hate that expression. “We did perform it on Coruscant. You are aware of traditions here, yes?”

Yes. Yes she was. She had seen wedding ceremonies before and—oh. Kriff. Bastila dropped his hand. Well, he better not. He better not _dare_. This ‘relationship,’ already so horrid, will remain platonic, nonphysical entirely, and he had agreed to that. Revan better not think about it. He better not come any closer either. Revan. Stop. Bastila nearly reached out through the Force to push him away, and perhaps cause an Incident, just as they had warned her not to.

She was backed into a corner, and her hands fumbled to find the door latch and wanted her weapon. It hung right there.

This was because she had saved him. If she had not--

Revan was nattering on, and she struggled to pay attention and look away from his exposed neck. “...what makes our marriage legally binding?”

What was he hinting about?

“My bed chamber is quite comfortable you’ll find,” Revan continued.

His sheets. His bed. Right over there. That’s what he’d been herding her like a batha into the corner. Towards…

Now she could faint.

But no, she could not.

His face was alight, jutting cheekbones and upturned lips. “No, my little Padawan; I will not pressure you. You must be willing to accept. You must choose, again.”

She could breathe again, and was distressed by her physical reactions. Jedi should have more control. “And why would I ever choose _that_?”

Revan _shrugged._ But his expression was serious. “We will share the rest of our lives together. Surely, at some point, you may warm to me.”

She snorted.

He remained optimistic, this murderer. “We will have an entire lifetime together, to explore such things.”

Oh no, _nope_ , no. No, thank you. No, she would _not_ \--

A flood crashed into her, as jarring as a waterfall, as being pushed into a lake. She could feel him, through the Force. Through their Bond, Bastila understood. It was _open_ , as the Jedi High Council had warned, wanted, and she could sense his emotions running hot, flush and nearly wild, ecstatic and crackling with emotion. He was doing this on purpose. They had warned her he would try to control her, he would try to turn her, he had learned from his Master, a woman that had also forgotten herself and broken vows and lost herself and left the Jedi. She had never felt anything like this _lightning_ , from Sith or Jedi.

“You want to know why I married you? Why I chose you, of all being in this galaxy, Padawan?” He reached up with one bare hand to cup her cheek. She flinched, but otherwise remained still. “Can you imagine why, _partner?”_

His mouth was warm and his breath nearly tickled the spot beneath her nose that she hadn’t realize was so sensitive. She could see ever pore on his nose and spatial lines that twisted away from his pupils that had remained black as pitch even as the irises had yellowed and the whites reddened. It lasted long enough for her to notice vaguely that his lips were unpleasantly, unexpectedly, disgustingly _soft_. Revan parted from her before she could properly understand and express her reaction to what he had done. There had been a sound when he separated himself, and the memory of that noise would strike her at odd moments in the weeks to come. He peered deep into her eyes, and she understood she didn’t understand him at all. “I _dreamed_ of you, Bastila Shan. I dreamed of you and all the things I will teach you.”

What had that _been_? He wanted...approval, and weakness. She was but a Padawan and him the Lord of the Sith. She was confused, overwhelmed. Her upper lip itched. His fingers and palms were still cold, firm.

She inhaled and slipped away, stepping back. Then spun around and was thankful her hands found the button to open the door. “Good _night_ , Revan.”

It felt so good to shut the door in his face, until the immediate pleasure fled and Bastila realized that she might spend the rest of her life like this.

She would lie briefly on the bed, then jump up, disgusted. She would wipe her mouth with one frantic hand until she tasted blood on her lips. She was a grown woman, a Jedi, and would have one day been a Master of the Jedi Order. She would not wallow in self-pity like a child, or think about the words ‘betrayal’ and ‘betrothal’. She would think of her lessons on what to do if captured by the Sith, and what that meant in this situation. She would not cry or think back to a month ago, when she had been fighting the creature out there, and not married to him with one scrawled signature.

She would not worry insistently about what tomorrow would bring.

 

 


	3. Nerf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews and for reading the story this far. I'm glad Bastila's POV is coming across as in-character.
> 
> LeFauconBleu, Revan struck me as someone that would, regardless of gender, class, race or Force ability, be able to do that trick with their eyebrows.
> 
> And Anemmane, I'm glad you enjoyed Revanche.

Love and marriage, love and marriage  
It's an institute you can't disparage  
Ask the local gentry  
And they will say it's elementary

\-- Frank Sinatra, Love and Marriage

 

It's no coincidence that the targets are shaped like single people and not couples.

– The Lobster

* * *

For a blessed moment, Bastila awoke with an empty head. She hummed, stretching out her neck, rolling over, and pulling her heavy limbs apart. She noticed the unexpected pillow under her head, lushly full, and wondered what time it was. Her eyes fluttered open. Was she back on a ship, why had no one woke her, had a window been closed, Dantooine was never this dark…Then she smelled cooking meat, and recalled yesterday.

She sat up, gagging.

Her hand felt marked. Her mouth felt diseased. She _was_ marked, ruined, _married_. How could she had slept in this room. Oh, not in his bed, but on the small sofa set nearby. But that little fact didn't matter. How could she have _slept_?

She found the refresher, but was not sick, not yet. She hadn't eaten well in the last month, and her last meal felt an eternity ago. She didn't dare use the sonic shower or undress. Her more formal robes were wrinkled and yet still cut uncomfortable into her skin.

Why leave? She had done her part. Why stay? She had done her part.

But she had to stay here. Not here. Not this refresher. She could not hide from him. This was another battle. She recalled facing him on the bridge of his ship, him angling his red blade for her even as she stated that he would not win – a lie, it seemed.

She splashed water on her face. She washed her face and hands thoroughly and felt better.

It was a comfortable cabin, Bastila could admit, in a vacuum. Much larger than her assigned quarters on Dantooine and on any of the Republic ships. Yet the style was ugly, black and red, sweeping and sterile in so many spots. It was purposely designed to let someone think it was only for function, a vanity. Should a Sith be a hedonist, or was there nothing left to enjoy such pleasures? There were books lining the shelves and she looked at their spines, wanting to see something shocking and found esoteric tomes on geography and space travel, _droid_ _maintenance_ and old scrolls in language she was unfamiliar with. Those surely had to be full of evil. A small alcove tucked away was for a desk with screens lining the three walls. The drawers of the desk were locked of course. The furniture looked clean and new, as though Revan had just acquired it. Yes, he would have bought a larger bed—

Bastila was glad she hadn't slept there all the more.

There were clothes here. Black and red, and royal blue, and clean white, and roughspun brown and rich green. Much, most, of it was in her size, and her blood ran cold. What was that thing, black as space? Had he bought _matching_ Sith robes for them? Bastila closed the closet and promised herself not to open it again. She had her own bags and her own clothes. Her leather suit was there, and putting it on seemed like a good idea so she did that.

She peered under the bed and found even that swept clean.

So, he was putting on a different mask for her.

Well, she would wear her own.

Bastila had been allowed her weapon. Revan had not thought anything of it. 'Yes, you are a warrior, aren't you? Keep it. Double-bladed, hmm? Interesting. Perhaps we will spar later.'

Yes, perhaps they would.

Bastila drew her hair back in a severe bun, the braids taut. She might have married him, but so what? A few words and Bonds would not weaken her resolve. She had a mission to complete, even still. Bastila strolled out of the room, head high.

Let him try his best to turn her to the dark side; she would not fall.

" _Gooood morning_ Bastila!"

She froze.

Revan was _chipper_. He was awake. He was over there. That could not be good, any of it. Oh Force, what was he doing? He turned back to the kitchen and she noticed the spatula, the knife, the splash of blood on a board of pale green wood. He was horrendous, and she hated how he said her name. His clothes were different, not a suit but plain black robes with a vivid purple cloak.

She didn't like his smile either. In fact, if Bastila wasn't a Jedi, she might have hated it. It was boyish, and disturbing with his feverish eyes. Force, but Revan had been an inspiration. People had died for him. For this.

He was cooking her breakfast and her stomach twisted again. If she threw up here, would he clean it up or summon another to do it? Would he grow angry and finally attack? The smell of fat sizzling made her head spin and she wished she had stayed in the sonic shower. Some bright vegetables with seeds and a sour smell sat besides a hot pan. His hands were bared, and she found the sight of his knuckles and palms disconcerting.

Then Bastila remembered the feeling of his mouth yesterday, that puckering _sound_ when he'd pulled away, and nearly lost her gorge.

"I have a gift," he announced.

She hazarded a guess, swallowing. "Breakfast."

"More than that."

"I don't want it. And I don't want breakfast. I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat, Shan." He peered over his shoulder. A curl of hair fell into his forehead. He had combed it, Bastila realized, unsettled. He was freshly shaved and completely groomed. Where had he slept? On one of those couches? Or did he not need to sleep? "You are free to cook, if you want something else."

Those knives looked tempting.

A grin pulled up the muscles in his face. "You have no idea what to make of me."

Bastila looked back, unblinking.

"I am not what you expected, Padawan?" He asked, so guilelessly. Wide yellow eyes and pursed mouth.

"No," she allowed. "But the circumstances of our first meeting were unusual."

He adjusted his pan. "Yes, they were that."

"I shouldn't be surprised at your behavior." She breathed in deep. "You did suffer brain damage, from that fall."

The grin over his shoulder was ingratiation, in its own way. Revan wanted her to smile and be glad he thought she was amusing. Though she was sure he hadn't nicked himself, he brought his thumb to his mouth to suck on around his smile. "Only minor. Thanks to you." He poured the food onto plates and gave her one to set aside.

"Going hungry solves nothing," Revan chided. She missed his frightening mask.

His concern was feigned; he cared not a whit for her. But he was amused, that much was honest. He put the plate in front of her, and waited to see what would happen. Force only knew what he was looking for from her. She was some kind of experiment, or this was a test of some sort.

What did it mean for her to pass, she wondered. Then it struck her that _failing_ such tests might be a more vital concern.

Bastila pushed the food around and tried to think things through clearly. She was _married_ to this man, and eating breakfast with him. What was he _up_ to, with this sort of behavior? She didn't even know his true name, Bastila realized. He hadn't been _named_ Revan from birth. But the Council hadn't shared that with her. It had happened so fast, and their advice had been practical warnings, counsels against the dark side, warnings and tales of Revan's schemes and nefarious plots to ruin the Jedi from within. His true name just hadn't seemed important enough to consider and ask about. Perhaps it wasn't. He was Revan.

Revan stared. "You know, you get this funny crease between your eyes when you make that face…"

"What face?"

"The way your nose scrunches up like that…"

"Like what?"

"It was bothering me all through the ceremony yesterday..." He made a show of looking unsatisfied as he stood up. "It looks familiar, is all."

Bastila might have to give up ever understanding him. He was a tactical genius, Bastila reminded herself. He laid traps and played coy and then you walked into what you least expected. Perhaps the best was to always keep your guard up. To minimize the damage.

He clapped his hands together. "I'll show you the rest of the ship today."

"Fine." Maybe he would explain where he'd gotten all those other ships of his.

This one was stolen from the Republic, and its design was similar. He had made changes, the color and other artificial things, but then there would be a room where there shouldn't be, a hallway a little too long. Even the refreshers were slightly off, less convenient, and devoid of safety guard rails. She felt quite uncomfortable standing there on that tile while he assured her that no one would be using these facilities at this time. "And even if they were, no one would stop you from coming in, Bastila."

She winced in response, and wanted to make sure the Sith Empire had lectures about such harassment. It might be important, she realized. It might be _very_ important.

Revan pointed out the training center, the crew member chambers, the escape pods ("you remember those, yes?"), and the dining area. The heart of his ship he pointed out with some pride as he went on about the mechanical strength and ability.

Bastila would have her own demands, as they finished traveling through the halls at their leisure. The space here was still unfamiliar. "I would like my want my own cabin, away from you."

His brows came together. "And why would you want to be away from your devoted husband?"

" _My_ …" No, Bastila couldn't manage the word. "You are nothing I want to be next to, Sith."

Revan's mouth twisted. He was annoyed. "I brought you a gift."

"Another r _oom away from you_?"

"No, no. Come with me." He held out his hand, and the Jedi ignored it. "Oh. Fine. I'll bring it to you, Padawan."

Then she was forced to wait, sitting on the couch and then moving, shifting. What would it? A headless corpse of Alak? Odd frightening droids or Sith holocrons or a red lightsaber and black robes? Fire and death. When he came back, the gift had to duck its head.

Revan presented the rusted droid with a flourish. "Here it is."

She looked up at it, cautious, wary of its red eyes. The droid looked right back at her, unblinking. Bastila had the irrational but unescapable feeling that it was unimpressed with her, all of her. "What is it?"

"This? This is _HK-47_." His smile shrank, and gaze turned inward. He looked thoughtful. "He's the best thing I've done."

"Agreement: Yes, that is quite correct, Master."

"You have two Masters now," Revan corrected. HK-47, if that was its true name, looked unconvinced. "This is the second here. She is Bastila Shan." Revan's smile was thinner than ever. "She is my _wife_."

For a second, Bastila's vision blurred. Oh, but she was. She was, and that was how she to be introduced.

"Do you know what that means?" Revan spoke to the droid like it were a child.

"Definition: A wife is a female mate from typically a humanoid species that is engaged in matrimony." There was a long pause. It took her in. "Query: Is that the Jedi you spoke of previously, Master?"

 _What_? Why would…had he been planning on having _her killed by this droid_? Force, was that what this was _now_? She got up, reaching for her blade, and watched Revan wave her off. "No, no, it wasn't like that, Shan. If I wanted HK to kill you, you'd be dead."

So _reassuring_.

No Sith Lord should ever look so bashful. "But, yes, HK. This is her. And she has become another part of your duty."

"Question: Am I to kill this Jedi-wife?"

She gaped, alarmed by his words, his eager tone. Her hand stayed on her weapon, and her eyes sought out rusted joints and the gun it wore.

"No, no, HK. You are to protect her." Revan's grin was not shy anymore. "Like you do me. Not that I'm expected the Republic to be trying to kill Bastila or me."

"Correction: Master, someone is always trying to kill you."

"That may be so. Perhaps a jealous suitor or two." He gave her a glance, eyebrow raised.

She scowled at him, and didn't care if he thought she looked like doing that. Let him have his foolish little jokes. She would have to learn to live with them. Learn to live with him. And his remarks and yellows eyes and how to handle her scattered thoughts and urges to flee in his presence. This was their first day together, a whole day together. The first day of many, forever and ever and ever

"Statement: I will follow your orders, Master. I will protect you and your meatbag wife."

Bastila's eyebrows contracted as she came back into this moment. Her mouth moved and formed another question, the first of many. " _'Meatbag'_?"

Revan couldn't stop laughing, and her rage came in red and bright, thick and she

had no idea

still of what to make of him.

* * *

 

There was a special on the Holonet about their marriage. Once, she had seen a ship full of thousands burst into flames as the Sith descended on it, and this was just as horrifying in her mind at this moment. And just as she was then, Bastila was unable to look away. They talked about her _outfit_. They talked about his suit. The binding ceremony was discussed and there was an awful, awful close up. They wondered aloud why there had been no kiss, as was more customary for the Core Worlds…

She shuddered and changed the channel and then doubled-back for another glance at the destruction. The orchestra had apparently been famous. Things had been unnecessarily decadent and such a hall was unorthodox for a wedding. Revan had supposedly spent quite a fortune on the food. Well, good for him. Good for them all.

Then they used the name 'Revan Shan' and Bastila had to cover her eyes and huddle up.

At least it wasn't 'Darth Shan' or 'Bastila Chist.' Still, _horrid_. And Bastila kept watching it.

One insincere simpering fool had a beautiful smile even as she frowned. "We wonder how our Bastila, the Last Hope of the Republic is handling all of this…"

Another tutted. "She did agree that any way of stopping the Sith was one we should take."

Someone had to take the other side. "Oh, I don't know. Revan was always the more reasonable of the Sith. For all he's done, isn't this treaty a step forward?"

Oh, they had no idea.

They were trying to make it _romantic_. They wanted to make it all seem like Bastila had _run away_ with Revan, that he had seduced her away secretly, rather than been handed off to Revan as a sacrificial pawn. Or, if that were true, than it was because Revan had been charmed by her. They simpered about her 'pretty face' and 'mesmerizing eyes' (Bastila snorted quite hard over the last), and said no wonder Revanchist had been wooed by such beauty.

Bastila very much would like these fools to see Revan, when he'd faced her on the bridge of his ship, a smooth gesture as he raised his weapon and pointed it at her. How could they say he…cared for her, after that? Did they not realize he was a monster, a murderer, and that this was just another way of capturing her, as Revan had always intended?

These thoughts, this brooding, was of the dark side.

She huffed and turned it off and went to meditate.

He might be back soon. His schedule could be hectic, random. Late nights away, but mornings here, to drink tea and make conversation. Revan claimed to like these rooms better, and he enjoyed her company—never mind the strained silences and awkward pauses and how she flinched (from fear?, from guilt?) when he would enter the room. When she complained, he would explain that his own quarters, humble and small, lacked a kitchen.

She treasured every moment apart from him. The first morning, two days after their wedding, he did not linger but for a cup of tea, and departed with a tale of paperwork and other woes, and a crude, unnecessary joke about wanting a kiss goodbye. She sat at the table until he left, then went through the cupboard and shelves and syntheser, stuffed her face with greedy, grubby hands, recalling the first day at the Academy when she had been quite deplorable as fear diminished and hunger came in. It was much the same, and that unsettled her. But her appetite on the whole increasing seemed to be encouraging, and she might look up from her plate of synthsteak and potato and rich greens to find Revan looking bemused.

She learned about his room, so offered up to her. She learned about this ship. She learned about his beloved droids. Revan…liked to talk, Bastila learned. He liked to ask questions and question the answers he received and made. He would ask aloud what he could do to make things easier between them.

"Let me go! Free me from this!"

Then, _ignore_ those requests. "That's impossible. We are Bonded and our union will be the thing that holds the Republic and Sith together."

"End the Sith! Stop this war."

"I have."

Bastila would stumble and sputter. "…with something that does not involve you and I being married!"

Revan rubbed his chin and would pontificate while she stewed in anger and tried to recite the Jedi Code. He spoke to his hideous droid, and at her, all rhetorically. Maybe, oh, maybe he should have gone slower. Maybe he should have come to the Council with his proposal. Maybe he should have snuck into the Academy, and proposed to her there, just dropped to his knees and given her his mask as a symbol of trust and devotion. Maybe he should never have attempted this idiot plan and simply kidnapped her. Maybe it would have been best to kill Malak and simply move on with his life and ignore his dreams of the foolish little Jedi that had warned him inadvertently of his apprentice's betrayal.

But what had happened had happened, and what we he to do with such an edgy, critical and overly secretive young bride?

It annoyed her when he made note of her flaws, as though _she_ were the problem here. It also annoyed her when he talked to that droid and would actually respond to i _ts_ replies. "What does one do with a wife that does not me as a husband?"

"Answer: Oh, Master, allow me to shoot her for once and for all!"

Then Revan would pat the droid on the side and apologize for this this. "Now, now, she's already got her lightsaber out. We should not antagonize her so. She is my wife after all." Then he would grin at her around his horrible creation.

Those holos never showed such things. Or trying to make tea at three in the morning, and finding him there on the couch, sitting there, silently watching her even as she muffled a scream and dropped the fragrant box. Or that for the first two days on board the ship, Revan hadn't fixed the handprint locks on the doors so to get inside she had to run around, find Revan, and drag him back and then wait for him to undo his glove and gauntlet. Then two hours would pass and she would have to leave for a meeting, and repeat the process again.

They didn't say that they would have arguments, some important and concerning the very tenants of the Jedi Order, and some rather asinine ones as well. "The Jedi Order insistence on their flawed Code and refusal to chance will be their downfall."

"The Sith's ever-growing paranoia and hostile interactions with the Republic and its own people will be its. You lack any democratic process. You are a _despot_ , Revan."

While Revan sneered, "When has the Republic been representative of its people? From its beginnings, it has been reactionary and unwieldy, corrupt. Why were so many eager to leave? That the Order allows itself to be shackled is only a sign of how hypocritical and worthless it has become."

She had no help with such arguments. She was forced to quite from the old texts he himself had read and criticized when younger than her. He refused to talk to the Masters about such philosophy, and loved to talk her down even she was all but pacing in frustration. Finally, she would turn to the closest thing to a neutral party: "HK, would your Master prefer for me to leave so he can make arguments by himself? Since clearly he doesn't want me to prove him wrong."

"Answer:-"

"HK, don't you answer that."

"HK, you answer the question!"

" _HK_. You tell your new petulant Master over there she is free to speak and I am free to correct her."

While HK might mumble from the corner, defensive, bewildered, "Statement: She is not even my _real_ Master."

There was something more than him being a Sith; Revan was also a stranger, and Bastila could admit she was unclear on how to handle such a situation. There was no clear hierarchical order. He was not her Master. She was not his keeper, and it pained her to think he was hers. They were not partners yet she refused to be considered lesser than Revan. People, soldiers in silver and black robes, bowed before them both. Bastila found that both peculiar, and distasteful.

The Republic soldiers here, her watchers and guardians and messengers and communication with the outside world, were themselves even a source for concern. They were onboard to assist her, but they brought with them only more suspicion and rumors, when not asking how much Bastila had learned about the Sith Empire. But they were all strangers, trained spies that Bastila had never met in her career, and all the pilots and common soldiers had returned to the Republic Fleet. They thought of her in practical terms, and made her very aware of where the doors were in every room.

These women and men were her responsibility as much as she was theirs. They watched the Sith, and the Sith watched them, and it was all rather tedious and nerve-racking. Some were blank smiles and flat eyes, even when talking to Bastila. Others seemingly wanted a fight and made their antipathy apparent (though that too might be feigned for some benefit), and others told her to get a food tester and only eat what Revan did. When arguments would occur and long, hard stares would occur in the hallway, she would fret and then dismiss, and then would argue with Revan to control his soldiers, particularly those dead-eyed ones in all black. Her guards told her to lock her door at night.

It had all been a meaningless trick; Revan wanted only her subdued and the Republic beaten, and this was the tidiest way about doing that. At least it had been bloodless, she would tell herself.

On the whole, Bastila thought she was doing as well as could be expected.

There were other matters as well to discuss, besides their dreadful 'relationship.' Or, rather, it was their business relationship that had to be discussed. With this treaty between the Republic and Sith, their resources could be exchanged. Czerka might be the only party to be displeased about their marriage, Bastila reflected. They had played both sides so well, become instrumental to both claimed and neutral worlds. That might become an issue later.

Revan looked at the Republic's list of requests. "What should I receive in exchange for these funds?"

"What do you want, Revan?" She sounded tired to her own ears, despite her best efforts otherwise.

"I'm not sure yet." Bastila did not think he was lying; Revan had so much already. "Let's just say you will owe me one."

Things were getting done. She told herself this quite often. There were nearly tangible goals being set and met. She should be happier. But she stayed awake at night, restless, and always locked the door at night. She would spend days in meetings and then evenings and long nights in the training room. The Jedi lifted heavy things and ran in a square and thought of the long night before she had formally agree to his proposal. She recalled the morning afterwards, seeing the sun that peaked through the cloud of pollution, resilient as the beings that walked beneath its glow, and she had looked out and said farewell to it all.

_Why me?_

Why not you, Revan would reply.

Because of her Battle Meditation. But why did she have that? Why did that matter?

Because the Force.

She grew resentful, and aware of that fact. She resented that she resented and was not supposed to be resentful. She pushed her luck. She left the chambers followed by his horrible droid and had to endure it questioned every move as she trained. She made demands of little things. 'Yes, my Empress,' he would mock at her requests, and she would shudder, and he would laugh.

Then Revan decided to make his own demands, so casually pressing against the bounds of their agreement. "You are restless. Of course. You're so young and spend so long fighting. When was the last time you used your little gift?"

Weeks, unfortunately.

No, it was _good_ that there had been peace for so long. If not, why else should she be married to this man? It was certainly not for her health.

"We should change that." That same neutral tone. "You can show me how you do that little trick? I've never witnessed it properly."

Bastila gave him a flat stare. "I swore to never raise arms against the Republic, and to offer no support to the enemy." She had made sure that had been in the paperwork. It was definitely in the paperwork.

"I am not the enemy," Revan said, pressing a gloved hand to his chest. "I am your husband."

Despite her Jedi training, her feelings must have been made apparent on her face because the Sith sighed. His hand fell to his side. "It's a training mission. That is all. Not live combat."

"And what do they have to train for?" Bastila asked.

"You never know," he answer, unsatisfyingly. "But they will not harm a single Republic soldier. You have my word."

"Meet them," Revan offered. "Give them a little courage, in that way you do. Such an uplifting girl. I'm sure you must miss being trotted out to perform your little trick."

Her 'little trick' had proved his undoing at time. Her 'little trick' had thwarted him enough to save thousands of Republic lives and weaken Sith Force. Her 'little gift' was why he had even married her.

"Ah, that grimace again."

Revan insisted she at least meet them, despite her protests. He pointed them out, giving names and trying to humanize those faceless beings in black and silver armor. Some of these Sith would sooner see her dead than wed to their precious Revan. Yet others were hardly fresh from childhood, hardly older than her if at all once they took their masks off and looked in their direction from the long stretch of the bridge. "Help them."

"Did the Sith not teach them how to start their own ships?"

"Hilarious. They are new, and unsure. Offer them courage."

Instinct, the thing the Jedi had told her to follow, within reason, cried out. Those beings out there were her enemies. "No. I will not."

That chummy, hateful tone entered his voice. "I think this is what marriage is about: compromise."

"You don't know anything about marriage. This is nothing but a fabrication and a sham."

His mouth was pursed under that mask, she could tell. All dark brows and light eyes, narrowed, prominent nose. Bastila could now pick Revan out of a lineup, and that was not reassuring somehow. She wondered what those strangers out there thought of this, them bickering like this. "What do _you_ know of marriage? Do you recall your parents own marriage?"

She did.

"Were you not given to the Order as a small child?"

She had been.

"And you still claim to not have taken lovers."

Of course she hadn't! Still though, Bastila knew _things_.

"What things?"

 _Things_.

"I see."

Oh, hush. Relationship _things_. Basic compromise and. Well. She remembered etiquette lessons and diplomacy. And uh, the other parts to such 'relationships,' Bastila was quite familiar with those certain things as well.

"How?"

Specifically? She had, of course, seen holos and read novels that mentioned marriage and relationships, platonic and otherwise. There had been training in the Order, of simple courtesies and diplomatic missions. For Bastila, after Revan's 'proposal', she had been recently exposed to other, more _personal_ fields the Jedi and Republic had thought would be necessary for this upcoming time.

"I repeat: how?"

Bastila glanced at her hands. "I was given books."

Revan stared. "Books? On what?"

She licked her lips and was unsure if she wanted to continue. "Marriage."

 _Relationships_. Some of those stories were quite...awkward. They went into personal details that appalled Bastila, but the Council insisted she study them. The Jedi Masters were at a loss to themselves explain things. They had even had Bastila watch a foolish seminar from a Corellian Jedi who insisted she knew better than the Jedi Council, and said her own relationship was borne of the light, not the dark side. There were even books written by Jedi from generations ago. They were quite fascinating. Those Jedi might be mistaken about allowing all Jedi having such attachments, but these writers themselves seemed to have made it work. For once, when Bastila studied Sunrider, it was not about her Battle Meditation but her _marriage_. And rumored relationship with Ulic Qel-Droma—which led to a brief distractive jaunt through the Exar Kun files and his gift with the unusual weapon, all of which made the Masters wary.

The Force, Bonds, could be used and might develop between people, couples, and that was entirely new to everything she had been taught and experienced. There were tomes that spoke of compassion and a measured form of passion that was so alien Bastila was fascinated. Until she recalled who she might be expected to try these teachings out on. Some were also... _tawdry_ and went into certain embarrassingly frank personal matters that _thankfully_ had not and _never would_ arise between her and Revan. But others, particularly that book of poetry from a pair of twilek Jedi, were lovely. Quite often they spoke of trust and protection, _love_ , and joy.

They made her, on the occasion, wistful.

She agreed with the Jedi Order stance on relationships, but if she had been born in another time, perhaps Bastila _might_ have wanted to marry. Perhaps she might have married of her own violation, to another Jedi Knight or to someone who was not Force-sensitive. It was an odd idea.

She was warming to the subject. "You should read some."

He was surprised, diverted. "Perhaps I will."

Perhaps this might be the way of leading him back to the light. Teach him about compassion and care for another.

He was still amused. "Did they discuss wooing a Sith?"

They spoke of quite the opposite, in fact, and how to temper passions with restraint. Revan needed that quite badly. "No. But it's not as though there's any Sith tombs on wooing a Jedi."

Something creased the skin around his eyes. "Perhaps not on 'wooing.' But there is plenty on seduction."

Bastila cleared her throat, and made a rather polite departure.

"I'll see your little trick firsthand sometime, Shan," he promised. "I know how eager you are to prove your abilities here."

Bastila walked away, refusing to turn around, back kept quite straight. Let him make such promises. It didn't matter; she would never help him.

She would come 'home' to this place after spending the last hours loafing around the room, the training area where everyone avoided her. She suspected they had been told to avoid Revan's little 'prize.' Revan had told her she was free to talk to the Republic commanders and the Jedi Order, and she did so. She wore some of the clothes that he had provided, the non-black-red ones. The blue robes were quite comfortable. He owed her that much, as well as a well stocked pantry.

She saw propaganda vids of her saving Revan, of being seduced by Revan to the dark side. There were Republic holos of their wedding, too elaborate and kind to the event. There were other Holos that sprouted ridiculous lies, that said he fell in love with her for saving him. They showed her allying herself with Malak and then betraying him. Some showed her and Revan together, planning to take out Malak together. Some said she had used her Battle Meditation to trick Revan. Some called her a traitor. Some made bets on how long the marriage would last between the conniving Revanchist and the headstrong Jedi Padawan Bastila Shan.

If she told them the truth, they would not have believed her. If she showed them a vid of what happened in this cabin, they would be so disappointed.

(thank the Force)

He alternatively ignored and suffocated her. He asked questions and make little jokes of the answers she wanted in return. He wandered in at odd hours, sometimes to retrieve one of his books or to put one back. When she trained, he would come into the room to watch from a careful, agonizing distance that made Bastila wonder if she should stop, or only work harder. He worked at puzzle books and loafed around, reading old manuals on droids and mass production that made her stare so hard he gave her a puzzled look in return.

She would grapple and struggle with their relationship and Bond. The Council had seemed particularly impatient with her answers, and when she began to ask them questions about Revan instead. "We are married. We should know more about each other."

Revan would sit there across the table, hair damp from a recent shower, collar showing beneath his loose gray tunic, unsettling domestic. "Agreed."

"What are your plans for disarming the Sith? Where did you get those ships to being with? Why did you turn to the dark side? Why did you betray the Republic? Why did those soldiers follow you?"

"…I was expecting you to ask me about my favorite color."

She crossed her arms. "Red. Black."

"Actually, it's yellow. The color of my _favorite_ Jedi lightsaber." He would _dimple_ then, and pointedly stare, letting her see the shade of his eyes.

"I don't care about your favorite color, Revan. There are real issues we have to address—" they were the reason she was here, and she was tired of telling the Council that she knew nothing of Revan's plans and schemes. "Such as you decommissioning your army."

"What? And contribute to the Republic's unemployment rate?"

"Did you at least get rid of the weapons onboard?" Desperation crept into her voice, despite her best efforts. Revan was renowned for his flagships heavy arsenal, and she had seen first-hand the droids aboard this ship. "The missiles and bombs? Those droids?"

"It's taken care of."

"What does that mean?"

"No need to worry about that, Shan." Serene. Majestic. _Arse._ "It's being taken care of."

"Revan. Did you get rid of them?" For the first time ever, truly, Bastila wanted to put her hands on him and shake his grinning face apart.

Instead, she had to sit there and listen to him purr, "Tell me about yourself, Bastila."

She grimaced. "I will answer your questions if you answer mine."

"Sounds fair enough." He clasped his hands. "Curiosity is perfectly natural."

The Jedi had spent years warning her of that 'natural' curiosity that might lead a headstrong Jedi such as herself to ruin. Lead her to something worse than marrying a Sith Lord, even. Perhaps his own curiosity, when combined with his arrogance and lack of empathy, had led to Revan's downfall? "I suppose."

"Quite normal for you to have such feelings about me," Revan continued.

"Alright—wait, what." Bastila did a double-take at his calm expression, his now-clasped hands. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Both brows stretched forward for his hairline. "Are you not interested in something besides my abilities with the Force?"

"What? Of course not." Her glare was withering. "I might find your _command_ of the _Force_ intriguing, if you weren't well…" Evil.

"It's natural," Revan soothed. "Our lives are connected. You feel it as well."

"Yes, our fates are connected." Good, that he was taking such things seriously. She leaned forward, earnest. They were getting _somewhere_ , Bastila could sense. "I know very little about you. I'd like to ask you some questions, given our relationship."

"Our relationship?" Revan glanced away, briefly, and she suspected he was trying to hide his amusement. "Is this some kind of clumsy come-on?"

 _What_? _What_! What. Why would he even say such a thing? Why would he imply that she...that she might ever have some sort of _romantic_ for him? How _disgusting_. How arrogant was Revan? "I was referring to the bond we share; the one the Jedi Council spoke of. If I was actually interested in you -" No. No, never mind. That was an awful portal to open.

Damn his smirk, "Ah, yes, I'm sure you could come up with a better approach than this."

"You are being completely absurd! Of course I don't—I would _never_ -"

"Our relationship can't be purely professional." He smiled, and in the chilly lights, his cleaned skin, he looked malicious. "But don't worry, Padawan, I am not a member of the Council and will not lecture you on control."

Then he would disappear for three days, (off the ship?) and send not a word of his whereabouts. She would be left relieved, left holding her tongue that was now blessed with a thousand cutting rebuke to his every remark every ten minutes, left a little nervous and unsure if this were a test and whether or not the other Sith onboard would harm her. Then Revan would come back with stories and trinkets and books and weapons—for her. "The Jedi did not allow you to have such possessions."

But she did not want another blade, no matter what great General had used it before, and she did not care about clothing. She liked her worn boots and comfortable training suit, her plain brown robes, the simple slips of ribbon for her braids. The books might be interesting, but only that Revan chose them for her; she was wary of what knowledge they contained. Sith magic, occasionally, or some book of fables or a treatise on Jedi meditation or a manual on the latest fighter ship.

His attempts at sincerity was off-putting. His grins wide and strange. He had given her his old room and one day, she came home to woven grass rugs and incense she remembered as a girl. "This is your home as well."

Her mouth had tightened. This was a kindness, and simple courtesy confused her coming from the Revanchist.

"We can change the couch, if you don't like it. Order a different table. Rearrange things, if that would help. Ah, that's where the crib will go, I suppose…oh Bastila, I was kidding." He patted his cheek and made a face at her jerking away.

When she training, sparing against faceless droids, he would stand far away. Then criticized her form and did not understand why she flinched at his hands trying to adjust her stance. "Yes, HK told me all about that little hesitation on your left side…why fight with such a blade?"

Because she…because. "Because I want to."

He relented. "Fine. Keep your little secrets, Padawan."

The Jedi had wondered if his Master was to blame for this as well. She had after all broken vows of non-attachment. Why wouldn't he be as similarly flawed as Master Kae? Bastila would agree, but to a point. Masters could only have so much influence on their students, and she herself little enough like her own Master. Besides, Revan must know all about their suspicions and the comparison, and found that amusing as well. Besides, Arren Kae had not raised the child she'd had, and the Revanchist had been adamant that they had parted company long, long ago under circumstance he still would not describe.

What was his plan, the Council asked? What did he plan for his troops, for the Republic? Had he made her do anything?

No, Masters. I don't know, Masters.

She was a mediocre spy, it seemed.

Then he brought her a fighter jet. It was sleek and silver, and far too Sith for her to look at any way but wary. "You are a pilot, yes?"

She smiled thinly. "Does this mean I can leave?"

"Now, why would you ever want to leave me, Bastila? I thought you would appreciate the chance to fly again." The corner of his mouth lifted. "There's room for two as well."

What did any of that mean?

He not longer had Malak as his apprentice? Was he trying to teach her in his place? He ordered her about, when she was flying, until she threatened to turn it back around, until she threatened to crash onto whatever nearby rock was close by and let them both suffer. "Now sit back and hush."

"Yes, Empress." Unfortunately, by the time she had the chance to make a sharp turn to send him flying, he was already comfortably strapped in besides her. He was a great tactical leader, a genius at battle and war. Yet his idea of trying to convince her to join him was to sit on the other side of the couch quietly or blabber on and on while she was trying to watch the Holonet until her knuckles went white. Or ask if she wanted to play Pazaak or Dejarik.

It was a false cover. Or perhaps the dark side had addled his brains. He had seduced many Jedi to the dark side, yet did not understand that she didn't want to eat with him.

The brain damage. The Bond.

Yes, that must be it.

They played Dejarik. Revan won twice and annoyed her quite greatly. Especially when he smiled across the board, that large warm one that crinkled up his eyes like they were old friends sharing an inside joke. Revan was expressive when he wanted to be. Revan just loved his little jokes. Like that time of their wedding night. She recalled the warm skin of his mouth, twitching and smooth despite the face she had made, that _sound._

It was a bad joke.

It must be part of his plot. He must have a fiendish plot to trick her into joining him and the dark side. He must have some idea of what to do.

What _was_ he thinking?

He wanted to charm her, Bastila decided. He wanted them to play little games and trick her into letting her guard down.

And it finally did happen. Oh, she did not fall into his arms, did not ask to be his apprentice, but there came a point where they were immersed in something besides the other. He had holopads full of schemes and she had reports on the Republic's rebuilding efforts and negations with Sith and Czerka. Neither argued or said a single remark as they filled and emptied their plates, excepting her request for him pass the basket of rolls. Revan had gathered the dishes and put them in the sink, and it wasn't until she was sitting on the couch did she realize: _normalcy_.

Bastila had dropped her datapad and stared at Revan, seated still at the table over his own work.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He could not know. She would not draw attention to it. Revan hummed about something and she watched his finger swipe across the screen to change the page. It was a secret and another one she didn't want.

Bastila would later explain to the Council that he was starting to trust her, there were small signs that he was watching her as he used to—and then Revan walked in with a _woosh_ of the door. "Bas? Oh-ho, what is this now?"

She had _locked_ that door.

"I wondered why you were shut up in here."

She turned to him, furious, _afraid_. "It's _my_ room."

" _My_ room," he corrected.

"Then give me my own!"

"I thought it was alright to share this one. Since we are married and clearly becoming closer." He _purred_ that last remark. She was certain that his mask hid eyes half-lidded and an arrogant smirk playing with his mouth.

Bastila twitched and wanted to hide her face as her heart stopped. She wished she didn't remember lines from some of those certain books that had been given to her by the bland-faced Jedi Council. "We are not! Stop implying those things."

"What sort of things?"

" _Those_ ones," she muttered.

He grinned, at her, at the Jedi Counsel still watching. "Hello, Masters."

"Revan." Master Vrook sounded furious, tired, exasperated. She was certain the rest of the Masters were exchanging meaningful looks.

"Padawan Shan."

She grimaced. "Yes, Masters?"

"We will talk to you at a later time."

"Yes, I understand."

Revan waved to them goodbye. This picture of cheery innocence in that mask and cowl. She felt a _very bad_ spy.

Bastila stared at him, angry. "…do you have anything to say?"

Revan was giving her a long unblinking stare. He waved a gloved finger in her face. "Sneaky, sneaky."

Her nostrils flared and she repeated the last lines of the Jedi Code. "You said it was fine to communicate with the Republic."

"Yes, and I know you do talk with them and the Order. But I didn't think you would do it so secretively. All the lights low and at this hour. What have you been telling them? Not _all_ of the truth, surely?"

Bastila stood tall. "I would _never_ lie to them."

"But you must have left out the part about our budding relationship."

"We have no relationship."

"We do. You just don't understand it yet. And you don't trust me! Of all people. We are Bondmates."

She had every reason to not trust Revan. "Then leave! Or let me go."

"I will not and neither will you. We are married. You signed the contract." Such words of devotion. Truly, Revan was the master tactician and negotiator.

"I know what I did! And I know what a mistake it might be. What were you even doing here, sneaking into this room at this hour?"

He crossed his arms. "I heard your voice and wanted to make sure you were alright. And alone. You know, no secret trysts behind my back."

The brunette woman grimaced. "Surely you don't believe that would happen?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were alright." He allowed. "You can contact the Jedi Council all you want. For whatever good it does you."

"Then why are you upset?"

The muscles in his jaw rippled. "I am not upset! I just think its absurd you had to have some secret meeting in the dark with the Council. You could have spoken to them in the living room. We could have talked to them _together_."

"Do you want to talk to the Council?"

He glanced down. "Not particularly. But that's not the point."

"What _point_? What point to _any_ of this, Revan!?" She gestured around the room.

"Don't you get mad."

He spun you around so and then wondered why you were so sick. "Why would I be happy?"

"I don't understand why we're fighting! Stop _yelling_!" he yelled. "And I don't understand why you felt the need to contact the Jedi in secret."

"Then we have nothing to discuss."

The Sith looked off into space, contemplating things. "I see." But he did not. Still, he left, and Bastila considered that a victory. Until he came _running_ back in. She snapped her datapad closed.

Revan was smiling. "You wanted me to apologize. When I came into your room unannounced. I understand now. I will not."

If she threw this device at him, it would not help. His head was probably strong enough to withstand the blow. "Then _, I repeat,_ we have nothing to say to each other."

His eyes darted around. The smile and pleasure died away. "Fine."

Bastila would be the one to get up, turn and walk away from him for the first time that week, but not the last. Revan attempted to try conversation with her, and she would refuse to answer or simply leave the room. Meals were taken alone and away from him. Holos too were watched well away from him, and when he would come 'home' early, she would retire to the room early, and ignore his sarcastic remarks to 'have a good night in that big bed.' Anytime he entered a room, she would look for the exit.

The Sith Lord tried to find it amusing, tried to dismiss her action and claim she would get tired of not yelling at him. Then another day passed, and he began to get sullen in the brief moments Bastila would look in his direction. His pouting _moue_ of displeasure unsettled her. He looked a boy denied a toy. "Will you talk to me?"

She simply bit down on her piece of toast and continued to stare at her datapad.

It was very nearly enjoyable. What a lovely time to just _ignore_ Revan. It might be the first time she liked her marriage.

It was a dangerous path, though, the Jedi sentinel knew. Revan was a dangerous man. He could grow sick of this entire game and decided to murder her and then finish his job of destroying the Republic. How could she claim to really know him, and furthermore, expect restraint? Yet Bastila would sit there, drinking tea and eating biscuits and ignore his seething.

Revan made a point of attending meetings that involved Republic rebuilding that did and should not include him, and made all sorts of comments both useful and worthless. He would sit across from her and stare pointedly. People were becoming alarmed. Sometimes, he would tried to nudge her and would often arrive early and leave late in hopes of catching her.

In fact, Revan _followed_ her around the ship. He sought to study her schedule and in turn, Bastila became very good at memorizing the ship's layout when he would jump out and attempt conversation. He would chatter, mid-conversation, "We should have gone on a honeymoon. Slayed some kinraths and rode some bantha."

She bit her lip and continued trying to move ahead while he tried to corner her.

"We need an exercise to do together. To forge our Bond all the more."

Yes, that's what they needed. Maybe he could hit his head again and she might, perhaps, save his life. It was the dark side that whispered such thought, Bastila told herself. It was his own influence, and being on this ship.

"Nothing to add, Shan? No little remark on joining my side?" He would curse her, and come too close, alarmingly close, and then back away. "It's cruel, what you've decided to do. This passive-aggressiveness has escalated to pure _violence_."

Yet the need to communicate verbally was one that built up. She found herself trying not to badger the Council, not out of necessity or the need for advice, but out of lack of anyone _else_ to talk to. She made unnecessary conversation to Republic officials and nearly wanted to flip through some sort of mental journal of her past acquaintances just to see how their own lives were going. Bastila used (wasted) her words on the Sith here, trying to convert them, talk to them, understand them and their decisions, their feelings. Some did talk, arguing, while others shied away as though she were a leper.

Revan would catch her talking to these people, and try to sneak in his own comments. Once, in the middle of a conversation, he would stand and demand everyone but Bastila leave, right now. Leaving her to sit there, silent, while he ranted and raved of her oddities, her foolhardy stubbornness, and his confusion.

None had any effect.

He would finally yell at her in the hallway, before his own soldiers and guards. "You'll crack, Bastila Shan!" Revan sounded crazy, and she was delighted and very frightened. "You can't keep quiet forever, _Force_ knows."

Well, they could just _find out_ , couldn't they?

Oh, Force, they _could_.

–They _would_.

She was reminded she knew nothing of marriage, but that this was not her first time involved in 'Marriage Resolutions' as it was called diplomatically on Republic military terms. As someone who was an Officer as well as trained and certified in conflict resolution, CPR and hostage negotiation, and had personally volunteered for the informal personal counseling sessions offered, Bastila had been given extra training that had proved also insufficient for that task. She had been too young, and enthusiastic and naive. When one poor lieutenant had come in to ask for advice on an unfaithful spouse that had been caught literally, _again_ , in the act with two twileks and a bothan, Bastila had sat there, gaping and saying literally, ' _wow_.' She had been reprimanded but not suspended, and would instead remember to bite her tongue whenever stepped into that office, wanting help of any personal kind.

Bastila grew increasingly wary of the looks she got in the hallways. Soon, there would be talk of them needing those, and she wasn't sure if that was exactly what they needed, or the last thing they needed. An annulment was what was needed, truly, but perhaps speaking to a professional _might_ help? Help...both of them? No, it would be to help Revan of course. He was the crazy one. This was all his fault.

The Jedi sentinel tried to picture a kindly middle-aged woman who believed in meditation and the Force, while being non-Force-sensitive herself, and wanted to talk about all their problems. Bastila would sit there and go on and on about everything, and completely ignore the seething, desperate man besides her. The things they could share with that poor woman. Perhaps then Revan would speak the truth; his first master had been a scholar and he might find something comfortably familiar with their therapist.

She would be _understanding_. 'Why did Bastila not want to talk to her husband?' Because he was a _jerk_ and he was only her husband out of blackmail and malicious intent! 'Alright. Now, Revan, why does Bastila feel that way?' Oh, because it was true. And what would Revan say? Go on and on about the Bond and the Force and Fate—all of which felt both to be true, and very irrelevant now. 'She won't talk to me and it's really mean!'

And what would that kind professional woman in beige and comfortable decorated office. 'Now, now, there must be some other reason why you two are married? Oh. Well. There's no reason why those reasons can't change and grow and become less...utilitarian.' And Bastila would insist that little imaginary meeting end right there.

Some of those Holos said things like that.

They said, more foolhardy of all perhaps, that Revan had fallen in love with her from afar. That he desired and wanted Bastila Shan, as a woman, not as a Jedi with a gift of Battle Meditation, and that was the true reason. And why had she agreed? Out of _peace_? Or were there other motivation. No one knew what Revan looked like under there, but all knew of that charisma, his passion and resilience. These Force Users, who knew what they got up to? The reporters heckled and grinned.

She wouldn't believe a word of it. She was ashamed that others might believe such things of her.

Disgusting.

All those strangers could never know of her icy silences, that once Revan had come up to her, fire and annoyance. "Careful, Shan, your face is scrunched up in that way of yours. If you keep doing that, I may grow concerned of your mental well-being."

That gave her strength to turn away, and march away.

He was a bastard, and a confusing one. She didn't know what to do or make of him. Which is what he wanted. He was a genius and a traitor and thus had no right to call her 'adorable.'

When a translation droid came up to greet her, Bastila would have tried to ignore it as usual, but it stood there, blocking the entrance out. It was his damn _assassination_ droid, Bastila knew. Revan was fond of droids. _Too_ fond. It would not listen to her complaints but still there, nearly chilly, if you could aspire emotions onto that blank metallic face, into those red pits that acted as its eyes. HK-47 was not here for his Master, it announced. It was here for Bastila Shan.

Perhaps he had gotten tired of her. _Already?_

It seemed unfair to die by the hands of Revan's _droid_. She had worked so hard as her abilities with her lightsaber. She would have wanted to face Revan in battle, face-to-face. She might have surprised him. She had wanted to be Knighted, and face him, face him as a Jedi and not as his angry wife.

It reached from behind its back with a sickening speed, and...pulled out a bouquet of lush flowers, some with their petals fulls and soft, others spikey and dangerous looking. She knew nothing of flowers. They looked odd, bright and lurid against the backdrop of the droid's patchwork surface of rust and dull chrome. The smell of the greenery hit her and struck her as familiar, and then she recalled that they had been there at the reception during the ceremony. Bastila stood there, feeling dim confusion, feeling like an idiot standing there and not grabbing for her weapon. Now, perhaps, it would shoot her and leave these flowers as a calling card. What better message to send to the Republic?

"Declaration: These are for you, meatbag."

She nearly flinched.

"Exclamation: Oh, if only I could blast my inhibitor core! I am an assassination droid, not a _delivery_ droid."

Her hands dropped from around her face. "...excuse me?"

"Statement: My Master does want to apologize for his earlier behavior and remarks. He wants you to know that he did not want you to be so offended by his earlier words. Will you accept these flowers, and his apology?"

"You're not going to kill me?"

"Promise: Not until my Master allows me to."

"..."

"Declaration: My Master would also like to state that sullen passive-aggressiveness does not suit a member of the Jedi Order."

"What would he know about the Order!"

" _Continued_ Declaration: My Master would also like to respond to any argumentative comments that _he_ was the one promoted to Knight and therefore speaks with more authority than any Padawan."

Oh, she wanted someone to talk to, but she was _not_ desperate enough to argue with Revan's droid. "You tell your Master I will never talk to him again! Not _ever_! I'll start wearing a mask as well! And in a few months, I will be allowed to leave, so he better-"

Red lit the world, and it was not from rage. The light and emergency klaxon sounded and she thought, _finally_.

But no, this was a true disaster-to everyone on board.

Bastila wondered if she should go for an escape pod. Escape to the Republic and leave—No, she was still a Jedi and would not abandon Revan. She going to save him. That was her mission. She would guide him back to the light.

She needed him to be alive to do that.

He better be alive, or she would find a way to resuscitate him with those CPR skills, the Force, and electricity. She would make sure he survived and suffered. "Come on, HK. Let's find your Master."

HK eagerly dropped the flowers and reached for his weapon. Bastila couldn't be entirely certain, with all the alarms, but thought she could hear the droid chuckling. "Now, now, only attack anyone that tries to harm us first-"

Revan came from some hidden panel, lightsaber blazing red-white and looking properly dramatic. If not for the seriousness of the matter, Bastila would have stepped on his cloak and made him stumble. The voice modifier was in full effect, and he boomed, " _Shan_."

HK unloaded on guards in black running towards them, their own blades lit red as well.

"HK! Were those beings even trying to harm us?"

"Declaration: Oh, female Jedi, they were."

"And how do you know that?"

Revan was having fun. He was all but laughing. "Make them dance, HK."

-completely undermining her authority. How was she to trust either of them when they acted like blood-drunk fools? Something toggled at her, and she felt anger behind her, quiet resolve. The assassin droid raise his blaster in a moment, very nearly too fast for the human eye if not the Jedi one, and aimed over her head. Bastila had hardly the chance to duck. "Revan! You control your droid!"

The Sith Lord was happy. And she cursed that she had not saved her words only for his droid, and hoped he would not notice in this moment. Not that it mattered. This was a life and death emergency, so such trivial and petty things like a vow of silence would wait. "Why, Bastila. You should be _thanking_ him."

"I will not! This is all your fault." How could this have happened twice? How dare he smile?

Revan's face seemingly fell, behind the mask. "You have something you want to ask?"

"Yes, I do. How—"

"Well, your face gets all scrunched up when you have something to say."

"—how could you let this happen, Revan!"

"You know." His tone was very serious. "I think I know now what your face resembles with that expression." What, some jibe about comparing her to the steady, humble Masters whose patience she was now able to admire more keenly?

Then Revan finished, "A _kinrath_ pup. _That's_ what it reminds me of."

A _what_? I do not look like one of those. Idiotic, childish. She had turned and very nearly lost composure. _You are nothing but an arrogant fool, a pawn for the dark side, hideous, I despise you with my every fiber of being._

But then Revan stepped very close, knowing exactly what she was feeling. His finger was outstretched, and threatened to touch her nose. "Just. Like. That."

Then his face rippled, lips parting and eyes searing. "It's actually rather adorable." He sounded _surprised_.

Then the ship shifted, seemingly threatened to spin, and send them loose through the hallways filled with wounded or murdered or murderous. The life system might be faltering, the artificial gravity giving out- The Sith Lord braced himself, and he and his magnetically enhanced droid hardly stumbled while she felt. Bastila could nearly hear him chiding her.

Then the room blinked and the gravity gave a shudder and sent them all flying.

When Bastila was able to find her feet, she realized Revan had landed on his beloved droid. Her enjoyment lasted only before she noticed that he was unmoving, blade unlit and fallen away, and she felt him only dimly through the Force. His rather bony rear end was in the end, and she had time to think _what a way to die_ and _this is certainly familiar._ Then Bastila stumbled to him, clutching her side. Another jolt sent every non-metal being forward, including the Jedi. She fell on top of him and was relieved when he made a muffled groan.

"Revan?" The mask required clasps to unhook and she pulled it away gingerly. Hair, black with blood, stuck to his chin. But he breathed still, full and deep.

"Shan."

"Are you alright?"

He coughed. "Except for that crushing weight on my chest, I am fine."

"Declaration: I too am fine, Masters."

She got off him, them both, annoyed. Where was her lightsaber...? "I am not crushing you. And you are welcome."

"For what?"

"This is the second time you've needed my help."

Revan had blood on his teeth when he smiled. "Darling, now is not the time."

"Don't call me that." They would bicker while the ship was blown to pieces around them. How foolish. She retrieved her own weapon and was glad Revan could stand on his own.

"Your former flames are quite obstinate."

Bastila scoffed. What a time for his unfunny jokes. " _Your_ incompetent, power-hungry lackeys!"

"Statement: Masters, we should—"

He pointed to the open corridor. "Let's agree that we should get rid of them."

"Fine. Then we can discuss your lax security standards."

Revan's right eyebrow twitched, but he bit his tongue. "We will talk more after this is over."

They would have to.

Damnit.

She was talking to him again. Again and again. It was too late now to go back. Bastila wanted to stomp through the halls, blade at hand but not lit in case the ship decided to spin around some more. It was all so hellishly familiar. She might as well be walking with Republic soldiers and fellow Jedi in hopes of captured the Revanchist who waited just ahead. Would Malak fire on them again? HK looked a fiend in this fiery light, if unlike the scythe droids she had faced on Revan's old flagship; she was tentatively glad they were on the same side.

The smoke that trickled from the next room seemed to be a sort of answer. Bastila coughed and recoiled, only to feel Revan pushing her onward. "Are you mad?"

"This is the way forward."

Her nose nearly smashed into his chest guard. " _Here_?"

Something heavy and solid pressed into her hands, and she fumbled with it and heard Revan curse. He pulled it away, impatient, and then she was being suffocated and crushed around the head. She slapped at his hands, at the horrid weight—and then she could breathe a little easier despite the heavy and smoke.

"I'm helping!" He snapped. "I'm _helping_."

"Get off me! Is this your _mask_?" The voice modifier was still on, and she winced at the sound of herself.

"Yes. You can thank me later." He shoved her forward, and she stumbled, then recoiled to drive an elbow into his side.

There was ash smudging his forehead. "Shan. This is the only way to go."

She knew that—but had hoped Revan had a secret panel somewhere. Sith Lords always had secret entrances. They also usually had backups and fail safes. They were usually annoying clever like that. "Shouldn't there be any flame protection kicking in?!" Surely the Sith weren't so ruthless as to not include that?

Revan looked very nearly sheepish. "…they should."

"I thought you fixed the ship?"

She was glad he wasn't wearing his mask now, so she could savor his discomfort. "Well, obviously we were sabotaged."

It was clammy under the mask, and she felt disgusted by the lingering warmth pressed to her face. "That really does offer such _reassurance_!"

The dark-haired man sniffed. "Are you alright?"

"I can handle myself just fine, no thanks to you."

"Then come on. This next room leads to the hallway. Then we'll—"

She spoked over him, "You will go right, and I go left."

"Excuse me?"

She stepped over boxes and crates and bodies and smoldered hunks of the ship. Soon there would be issues with the pressure, with the lights, with the life support system and the gravity as well. The Jedi could nearly feel time slipping away, especially with the Sith near to her began to cough, and needed to grab her shoulder to lead him out. When they reached the halls, she went left and ignored him gnashing of teeth around his streaming eyes and ignored when he sent HK after her, to protect her, no, HK, to protect, not _shoot_. Bastila ducked and cursed them both and this ship and the entire situation.

"I don't need either of you," Bastila insisted. "You should be going to the life support system."

"And where do you think you are going?"

"To the deck! We may need to evacuate and I want to make sure we can save as many people as possible."

"This ship is not going to explode," Revan howled, before a realization flattened his face. " …unless they get ahold of the torpedoes."

"You said you got rid of those!"

"I said I would get rid of them!" A heavy cough made him sink, and Bastila was torn between going to him, and leaving him while she still could. Something whispered, something cheerful and sickly eager, that he could die here and she might be freed. Then, shame and sense spoke back, stronger, and reminded her of their bond.

"Revan, go to the life support. I will try to help get people towards the escape pods, if _needed_."

He acquiesced. "You must be careful Shan. This has…gone beyond expectations. Someone here is a traitor."

"Besides you?" she nearly chirped. Her blade felt right and sturdy in her hands, her forearms adjusted to the width and length, shoulders squaring. The mask had helped with the worst of the smoke.

Revan glared at her from around bloodshot dripping eyes. "You cannot wander by yourself…"

"I thought this was your ship. And that I'd be perfectly fine here. That's what you said on all the documentation I was forced to sign."

"So, you want to be harmed, out of spite?" he snarled.

"No. I know I will be fine. Because the great Revan _promised_."

"Bastila. I don't want you to be harmed." With his face flushed, water filling his eyes, Revan looked serious. And she nearly believed that he did not want her hurt. That he…might care if her life was in danger.

"You are an odd woman, and a strange wife," he declared. "HK, make sure no harm comes to her before we can further study this specimen."

"Declaration: Oh, Master, are you sure dissection wouldn't be easier once she is dead?"

Bastila rolled her eyes and went left.

She ran into dead and injured Sith, and for once felt pity for them. In the darkness and smoke, their faces were unlined and innocent. You might even remember that some had been with the Republic and had expected peace now; they had believed that Revan and Bastila would protect them. Or had wanted to protect them in turn. There were Republic soldiers here too, and she knew some of them, if only by face. She covered one's blank staring eyes, his name escaping her, while HK chided her on wasting time, and then noticed the single injury one soldier had in his chest, a single perfect hole, cauterized and still warm.

"HK?"

"Answer: Yes, Annoying Female Jedi married to my Master?"

"Do you have much experience in killing Force sensitives?"

"Declaration: Oh, yes, indeed I do."

Bastila looked into unblinking red orbs. "Good."

Then the lights overhead went out and left them in a grimy crimson darkness.

"As a meatbag would say: I have a bad feeling about this."

"Shush."

Then they found someone living. They were in the process of stalking and finishing off an injured Sith, one-handed, and hissing hatred, hissing revenge even as the red-blade fell sputtering from her fallen hand. She had no defense left. Smoke rose from the hole in her forehead, and her eyes looked black as pitch as her head pitched back. HK lifted his weapon, watching, and Bastila was unsure of what orders to give him.

"Inquiry: Should I murder this meatbag?"

"No. I order you not to." she replied, curt. His outfit confused her. She called out to him, "Are you a Republic soldier?"

The man, a stranger in familiar orange-and-red, looked up. "Yes. That's right. And I'm here to stop you, Sith."

Oh, oh, no. The Jedi reached up and tugged off the mask, even as the assassination droid tutted and warned her not to. "You're confused, I'm Bastila Shan and I'm no Sith."

But the soldier did not lower his blaster. If anything, the dirty face twisted with more anger. " _Bastila Shan_. You're the one I wanted to meet. That 'Force' must be with me. I'm so glad I'll be the one to kill you."

She gaped. "What?"

"You will _pay_ for your deal with the Sith Lord." As though that were the signal (perhaps it was), more soldiers came out, clad in red-orange, or in black, faceless. Bastila had only seen the groups of Sith and Republic soldiers and offices together in graves as they fought to the bitter end. It was unsettling, to see both groups together and alive still. She had only seen that at the wedding.

She lifted her weapon, furious, even as she told HK to lower his own. "Do you even understand what you're talking about? This deal was to save the Republic!"

"Save us? We're just the Empire's lapdog now. You haven't saved us from anything." A sneer cross his face, more alarming than his weapon. "We know the real reason you went to join Revan. Just like those other Jedi."

"No, it's not like that at all!" How could anyone think she had fallen to the dark side? She was doing all of this for the Republic, for soldiers like this, and their families.

"Request: Female Jedi married to my true Master—"

"Shut up, HK!"

The hand on the blaster was steady, and Bastila knew she could easily deflect it, could run at him and with this weapon and its extended reach, it would not matter the distance so much. Three moves and he would be dead just like that Sith woman there. "I'm going to end this little deal right now!"

Revan ruined it. "Not if this Sith Lord has anything to say about that."

So dramatic. Bastila wanted to roll her eyes, and appalled herself. Then she noticed he had brought others with him. Not to save and get to the escape pods, but to fight off the intruders. Some of them were even Republic soldiers and an officer in red, collar eschew. Revan made a flashy move with his blade, swinging it through his hands so the walls were alight and ablaze with crimson. It felt wrong to fight alongside him. She had spent months preparing to fight him. He did not even spare her a glance or make a comment on the absurdity of this all.

Then, neither of them could, as others came rushing in, mercenaries and Republic guards, Sith armed with blasters and rifles, Dark Jedi with red lightsabers. One had a blade like hers, and she sensed their bloodlust and felt a little sick at her own body's response: eagerness. Revan had asked why she fought with this weapon, of all weapons, this one infamous from Exar Kun, dangerous and ungainly, and unlike what a Jedi should fight with. And Bastila could nearly tell him, because it felt so good, to overpower and startle and confuse an enemy that had never faced such a blade, that the reach was better, that it require so much more concentration and skill. It was unusual, but in a _good_ way, with indispensable focused practice that did not come to one naturally. She was supposed to only be good at _Battle Meditation,_ not combat. But she would be more than that.

"Ah. Now this is fun."

If only her zeal was only a produce of such closeness with Revan.

"Though, Hk." Revan sounded casual. "You were supposed to protect my lovely wife."

The droid turned, complaining, "Protest: Master, I did try. But she ordered me to stand down."

"Mm, what a foolish act. But perhaps she wanted to kill this traitor with her own hands?" Revan all but purred.

"Now, look here," she snarled. "We are all going to be reasonable, sensible beings and—"

The Republic soldier pointed his weapon at her face and pulled the trigger. It was second nature to raise her weapon to deflect, but she was nearly startled when the Sith Lord leapt near to her, his cloak nearly brushing against her shoulders.

The Force came through, in a rush of light and awareness. She threw herself forward at the nearest guard, this one comforting in Sith armor and yellow-eyed. He hissed insults, threats. He told her the Sith were not weak fools not matter what nonsense Revan might sprout now, that she might have tricked some Sith into letting their guard down, but he would not be beaten by her. Bastila had many grunting retorts of her own. She nearly regretted taking the opening she saw as he overstretched himself and allowed her to bury the tip of her blade into his side.

Then Bastila could nearly slip away from the front lines, before she could even hear and see and smell his death. Every muscle felt bruised. She had not gotten much of a chance at real combat here, and was keenly aware of that fact. The Jedi watched a Republic guard, his short blond hair gleaming in the light, try to distract another guard in order to _save_ Revan. When he was shot down, by one of Revan's traitorous guards, she very nearly felt something twitch from the Sith Lord through their Bond.

She felt everything slipping away, in a warm rush. It was very nearly an accident. A comforting one. Her eyes were closed, because she did not need them, and when she sat, it was because she did not need to stand. The Jedi felt fear, death, pain, satisfaction. Revan…Revan was glad. Revan was _happy_ , and _red_ and _amethyst_. It was simple to determine whom was with her, the hunger, _green,_ and rage, _purple,_ that was directed away from her. Everything was perfect, _gold_ of the sun with Dantooine, was her last thought before things slipped away. She was one with the Force, and the Force was one with her.

When she came to, opening her eyes with that disquieting ease and peace she would never trust fully, so incapacitated in that state that she could slip into so easily, slip _away_ , she found what she always expected. One day, her Master had warned, she might be lost in meditation, defenseless should she not react fast enough, and be killed that way. But it was not today. How odd, to be pleased to see Revan standing there, whole and unharmed.

She and Revan stumbled towards each other, and she wished she didn't feel this sense of companionship, of gladness to see him. She picked up the mask she'd dropped and handed it to him to avoid looking into his face. He turned to her to take it, flicking off his crimson blade, looking taller than before. "I have never seen you smile before now." Revan cocked his head. Was he happy still? What was behind his mask?

She felt her expression dropping away. Had she been smiling?

There were Sith soldiers here, as they both expected. No (she scoffed again) 'ex-flings' of hers amongst the dead. But she was confused by the Republic soldiers there. Their faces were bloodied but unmarked by the dark side, just as that one from earlier had been. There were so many of them. She didn't understand.

Bastila had to ask someone. Even if it was Revan. "Did they join forces to come kill us?"

"Some people completely miss whatever point they were trying to make," Revan reasoned. He coughed. "They get lost and confused. And then they do stupid, idiotic acts."

She looked up at him. "But…"

"I know."

Together, they ruminated on the nature of people.

"What a waste."

"Yes." Revan said. "And here I never thought they would get to the bridge so quickly."

Something clicked, nearly audibly. Bastila turned to him. Oh. Oh, you bastard. "You let them in. You _arranged_ this."

"Yes," he admitted, standing there, like he shouldn't burst into flames and flutter away in ashes. "In a matter of speaking. I knew there were restless traitors that were plotting against our union, even here."

"What were you thinking!"

"I wanted to see what would happen." His smile was careworn. He didn't care at all for her, just as she'd suspected their first morning together. Any decency or emotion that was not selfishness was only a lie. Revan didn't give a toss if Bastila was harmed, beyond what it might do to their Bond, that mistake, that horrible monstrous _mistake_ on her part to help him, to reach out and try to warn him out of instinct and hope that he might help them in return.

Her voice was thick, heavy. She wanted to strangle him very much. She wanted to claw apart his bare face and pull out whatever was left of his brain and inspect, and understand its disease. She would beat him to death with his own mask, it was decided. "This was all a test? You wanted to see what, how everyone would react? What would _happen_?"

That odd content smile was still on that dirty face. "I wanted to see your little trick."

"Revan. I swear, I will make you pay for this." She was gibbering herself, feeling the adrenaline running out. "I promise it. For everything you've done—"

"Now, now, Bastila. If they didn't strike now, the traitors would have just picked another time. This time was…more convenient. I suppose." The Sith cleared his throat. "We must remain vigilant. Always. Both the Republic and Sith have enemies. You and I will forever be in danger. Never grow complacent."

Bastila looked around, at the bodies, at the ruin and waste. "They were as foolish as you are."

"Yes. What fools. Our marriage is as strong as it ever was."

Oh. It was. And she was talking to him. What a joke. What a _joke_.

A click sounded overhead and Bastila froze and looked up. Would the ship b _low up_? Was there a bomb planted overhead to make sure both she and Revan were killed? Traitors deserved no better. She would die here, like this, as Revan's wife, with Revan, and all in all, the galaxy would consider it an improvement. Finally, she would have completed her mission and stopped the Sith.

In a second, they were drenched. Bastila tried to keep her teeth from chattering, tried to keep herself from being blinded. Her hair clung to her face, and she tasted smoke and the dry burn of metal and electronics.

She could be fighting the Sith. She could be using her Battle Meditation right now. Just a few months ago, she had been with the Republic Fleet, saving the galaxy and doing the right thing. She would have been a Jedi Master one day and as such, she would not cry, not over faulty overhead anti-flame detectors kicking in minutes too late.

Revan stepped towards a soldier and pulled the ripped remains of the Republic's proud flag from the dead man's grip. Carefully, he draped the Republic flag over and around to protect her from the worst of the flood. She looked up and found twin wide topaz glimmers, a bruised chin, a bloody nose. Damp hair clung to his forehead. Without his mask, you could look right into those startlingly bright eyes against the grey of his bruised skin, the thick dark eyelashes. He must have looked like this after Malak attacked him, beneath the mask. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."

 


	4. Tarisian Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both now facing for the first time  
> Presently and past  
> Something that begins with M  
> And ends in alas  
> More than not complete disaster  
> Even form the start  
> What could it be...  
> It's Matrimony
> 
> \--GILBERT O'SULLIVAN

 

* * *

 

She began the quiet afternoon by having it marred by arguing with her spouse on the nature of their relationship, and how very, very wrong he was about his opinion about that nature. And it was _his_ fault. After he looked up at her over his heavy leather-clad tome and brunch of Beelpop melon, Revan had felt the need to announce that she must stop staring at him so intently for fear he would burst into flames from the intensity, though, he did understand why she thought him so _stunningly_ handsome and fascinating; she must be as curious about him as she was the Sith. Bastila had needed to push aside her Covado salad with Almakian apples that he had spurned, and huffed. “My interests in you are hardly even academic! And no, I will not study any of your Sith teaching, Revan.”

“Given our relationship,” Revan hummed. “It’s perfectly natural you would have such curiosities. You hardly know me after all; I _must_ be so fascinating.” Revan, she swore, _batted_ his eyelashes at her.  “Your brain has to be all a twitter, trying to figure me out.”

And Revan had long dark eyelashes, all the better to show off and draw attention to his sickly, bright and pale irises.

Bastila bit her tongue. “I know you are easily the vainest, most arrogant man I have ever met!”

“Bastila. Bastila.” Revan would sit there in the common dining area, shaking his head. Tapping a spoon against his mug. The put-upon Knight, the wise Jedi. How she despised him. “It’s obvious you are interested in things beyond our Bond.”

Bastila could not be blamed for raising her voice. “We are _joined_ by the Bond. Your actions affect mine! Is that not why you insisted on our nuptials?”

“Yes, that is very true,” the Sith agreed. Her relief was short lived. “And yet I feel there is more to your feelings than you realize?”

He smiled. “After all, I can sense your emotions, Padawan, we _are_ Bonded.”

“Are you going to answer my true questions?” She sat there, still. “Or just would you rather just keep annoying me?”

“I do believe I will choose the second option.”

She would throw this orange into his face. It was Mandalorian orange, rough and heavy with juice, and all the better for it. “Get out!”

“We’ll talk later,” the Sith assured her. “When you’ve calmed down some and are willing to act like an adult.”

_He_ was the child. An odd man that had to stow his rages and anger beneath a facade of jokes and irreverence. He left his plate for her to collect and fume about, and order HK to collect as the assassination droid complained insistently about his protocols and programming, that he was a murder droid, not a _server droid._

“We all have new jobs now,” Bastila muttered to it, darkly. Thanks to Revan. Thank him. With your rifle. You go left and I go right, and we’ll make sure he appreciates all he’s done. Then the Jedi would shake her head, and sigh, and offer to dry the dishes after the droid was done scrubbing them. In return for her courtesy, the droid referred to her as a ‘Jedi meatbag.’

With Revan, they could talk of all sorts of things. They might discuss the Order, and he lorded being raised on Coruscant as though Jedi were so classist and it was a failing to be on peaceful Dantooine. There might be talk of their Bond, but not the reason why they were so connected, not of the betrayal and his weakness and her standing over him, deciding. There were many things they did not discuss. She never spoke of dreams of oceans and sand. He never told her of the Sith plans, of his fall, and if mentioning Malak it was but rarely and never as _Alek._

_Yet_.

Despite _everything_ , miraculously, they were getting along, in some fashion. Revan did not murder her, and she had used her Battle Meditation to protect them both and save the lives of others, and that was…alright. Things were better than the first night, Bastila would admit. Things were not peaceful, but not violent. His name did not catch in her mouth so much. She was resigned, but less actively resentful of that fact. Such feelings had done nothing to help her, Bastila would admit as well. When they argued, it sent less dangerous flickers of rage and that uncomfortable tightness of her own despair, through their Bond. Now it had an aura of amusement, disdain, familiarity. If talking to a Sith over a light breakfast in the morning could be considered a skill, Bastila would consider herself becoming proficient.

Besides, there were other things to pay attention to on this ship besides the dark-clad stranger that occasionally occupied the same room as her, a stranger that had once put a bounty out on her head. She had to focus on her own studies of the light side, the Jedi, and help the Republic as she was capable in this capacity. The Padawan would make plans and resolutions. She would recite the Code, over and over again, especially when he was near, for so many, many reasons.

There was no going back. Bastila must accept this. The Council had told her as much, when she’d arrived back on Coruscant after the mission had failed, failure and ash on her skin. Even if she returned to the Jedi, even if their marriage was undone, they still shared a connection.

This marriage was meant to cement a peace treaty between the Republic and Sith Empire. Their marriage was a signal of peace. This marriage was to save the galaxy.

Bastila thought on that one late afternoon as they resided outside Corellia in what was _not_ a demonstration of power and a clear threat of the Sith power, while he slipped behind her to wrap one arm around her shoulder. When she finished jumping and tried to squirm away, Revan only tightened his grip. “ _Bastila_.”

“What do you want? What are you doing?”

“This is important.” His arms were like steel. For such a thin man, he could be so physically powerful. It was unnerving. In a sudden flash, Bastila saw him again besides her as they stood before the enemy, his blade aflame and next to her. It would have been easy to have murdered her and made it look like an accident. They had not even been far from where they were now, in the many black-and-red hallways. “ _What_?”

“It’s our three month anniversary.”

Bastila stopped fighting for a moment. Oh, Force. _Was_ it? Three months. Three whole months and only three months. So many. Yet so little.

“And no one said we would make it this far.” Revan smiled.

“How is this important? Will you make a cake?” She deadpanned. But Revan did enjoy puttering around in that kitchen and acting unassuming. And Bastila would not say no to fresh chocolate cake, even if it was from him, she was not so ashamed to admit.

“Not tonight! We are going out.”

Out the airlock?

The Jedi cleared her throat. “Where?”

“I was invited to some gathering, it seems.”

She squinted at him. “Of Sith?”

Revan shuddered. “No, amongst the worse scum of the galaxy: _politicians_.”

He despised politicians and had all but banned such roles from the Sith as much as viable. Was he planning on murdering them all? “Why?”

“They enjoy my company,” he said simply.

Was such a thing even possible? Bastila could hardly imagine, for all everyone spoke of his charisma and strong-willed charm. “No. Why do you want me to be there?”

“I want the Republic to know I do not have you chained to anything. Well,” he paused. Revan was _grinning_ under there, a repugnant little smirk with white teeth that must have surely been doctored and laser whited. “I might bring out chains, but it would be with your enthusiastic permission.” 

No, it was all metaphorical type of chains.

She continued squinting at him, easily ducking the sexual innuendo. “What if I don’t want to be there?”

“Too bad. I make so few requests of you, dear.”

Bastila scoffed. “Yes, you are the master of hospitality.”

“Exactly. So, get a dress. Continue putting your hair up that way you _somehow_ manage. Find something besides those boots for your feet.”

She liked her boots. And she didn’t care if he had some smart little remark about her hair. And she would not go into public with Revan. It was humiliating to know in private that she was attached to him; it would be far worse to be paraded about by the Revanchist. “Why would I agree to this?”

“I’ll make it worth your time,” he promised with that troublesome smile still there, still hidden. “Unless you’d rather I arrange the Republic’s funds for rebuilding the charming world we are currently orbiting accordingly…”

_Jerk_. A horrible monster. She closed her mouth and turned away. “Fine.”

Revan wasted little time. He pulled out a com, and sent for people, tailors and dress makers, in to help her in the apartments she had to consider home for now. It was uncomfortable, to have strangers in this space, and have them bringing in foreign supplies like _mirrors_. Bastila hoped they had been properly vetted. Revan was not above letting enemies in to defeat them. He’d even done that in warfare. That was how they had met, arguably.

“Whatever my wife wants.” His words were thick with irony for a moment before the iron returned. “Make it fast however. We are on a set schedule.”

“Yes, Lord Revan.”

Why so suddenly last minute? Why take this risk, after what had happened and they had learned neither the Republic or Sith were blindly to be trusted as they did not blindly follow Revan’s little story? Or was this a way of showing he was unafraid? Revan might have been betrayed by other lesser beings again, and succeeded again, and this woman tethered to him was another sign of that.

When she tilted her head and looked at the man standing behind her, all she saw was that mask, the eyes and expression hidden beneath the T-shaped visor. She could spent another three standard months with Revan and learn nothing new.

Bastila ordered this faceless relative stranger to leave when they brought out the tape measurer and Revan tilted his head so, _considering_. Three months, she reflected, as Revan’s cape was whisked from view. It was a great amount of time, and yet not very much. He was still a mystery. He would antagonize her one second, but had made certain to protect her from that attack. He made no serious gestures towards harming her, but told her of the ancient Sith, and showed her holocrons, both light and dark. _Are you not curious, Padawan?_

The tailors insisted on certain details and she either squirmed or protested. They fawned and gently suggested colors and fabrics as Bastila insisted on keeping things practical, and devoid of blacks, reds, or grays. They made a fuss of finding something that recalled the outfit she had worn for the ceremony, but perhaps more _mature,_ and she would agree with some conditions. Russet, gold, and not too uncomfortable, yes, Force, no, she would not wear something that showed so much, no thank you, longer, no, _longer._ And higher _there,_ thank you very much.

Servants without names, they insisted on not telling her their names, pulled her hair down, and then back up in a more elaborate knot she could not have accomplished by herself. A woman, silent, fussed with applying kohl around her eyes and blush to her cheeks, and Bastila did her best not to flinch. Fine gold ribbons for her hair, and she recalled being a girl on Dantooine, running among the tall grass with her braids streaming behind her. There was still much of that young child in her, she felt, even as they showed her the reflection of a grown woman in the mirror and whispered that she was striking, beautiful, powerful, an _Empress_.

She ignored as best she could the comments they made about how her husband might enjoy seeing this more _sensual_ side to her.

Only when it could be something modest enough to wear in public, she would agree trying it on. Though, she still felt conscious of how much of her back was exposed. The heels were at least low. They told her to wear it out, and she fretted over her old clothing, and told them, repeatedly, to make sure they was taken back to her room—Revan’s room. Yes. That room right there.

Revan was apparently gone somewhere, leaving her to linger around a place that was not supposed to be a dressing room and squirm at the feeling of air on her neck and collarbone before these Sith. The walls were black and everything was made a shadow. Bastila had to remind herself of the familiarities between this and a standard Republic vessel. She hoped Revan did not choose the same dress, and was disappointing that he had left and her joke was left unmade, wasted.

Revan appeared in his usual mysterious way of slinking up and trying purposely to startle you. “Why. Hello.”

She released her breath and clenched a fist. He had removed the infamous armor _but not_ the mask. She doubted that underneath it he had combed his hair even. For a moment, she nearly envied that he could walk amongst others as slovenly or yellow-eyed as he wished; by hiding everything Revan didn’t have to hide anything.  “Revan.”

“ _Bastila.”_ He stepped back. “You look…quite different.”

Bastila stared, waiting for his next comment. “And?”

Revan lifted a single eyebrow in that way of his. Bastila could sense it without having seen it. Perhaps it was the Bond. “I am attempting a compliment, Bastila.”

Her hands ran down over the sleeves of her dress. They were not long enough, it seemed. She was glad that the last fight’s bruises had healed and left only a brushing ache in her shoulders. “It’s not needed.”

“Still, it is the truth. You do look…” Then he was glancing her _over_. Bastila wanted to grab something heavy and sharp and break it over his head. “ _Divine_.”

“Excuse me?”

“Glorious.” He lifted his hand, spreading them as though announcing her to the universe at large. “No wonder you had my Sith soldiers falling about as you did.”

She felt her mouth tighten and lips thin. “If you don’t like my dress, I can just simply stay here and not bother with this at all.”

“Pretty.” His voice was pained. “You are quite pretty. Has no one ever told you that?” His eyes would look odd against that dark fabric. Paler.

She glanced at his suit, not unlike the one he’d worn at their ceremony, but less ornate. Did he think to feed into her ego? What did she care what he thought she looked like? This was just to show she was not being tortured and turned to the dark side. “Other people have.”

Revan’s stare lingered long enough to let her notice. “Men? Women? Have you had other _beaus_?”

“Other? I have not had one to begin with.”

“Cruel.” He looked around, and she saw the honor guard he had come forward from their own waiting area. They still made her uneasy. If she ever made a move towards Revan, they would make certain to strike her down. “Are you ready then?”

No. “Fine.”

Revan had a shuttle in place and guards loitered and walked nearby. Some of them wore similar masks. Fakes. They spoke little to each other and only whispered to Revan and ignored her completely. They bowed low as Revan and she entered their small temporary ship that would take them to Corellia. Bastila wondered what would happen if she ordered them to perform a task, and if they would balk or obey without Revan giving the command. She watched their hands and stared down at her shoes which were not comfortably worn boots.

Only when they alone did Revan talk as freely as he might with that voice modifier. In the shrunken quarters of the ship, she felt claustrophobic and exposed. The planet below would be cluttered with buildings and ships, but she would have no chance to walk along the streets. He moved freely to the cabin to check the coordinates, chatting about the ships here, (a Stinger-class starfighter in particular caught his eye) the docks and stations and about his beloved, cherished HK droid and informed her that he was indeed here—but undercover, just in case. Don’t fret, Bastila. 

Bastila was relieved to finally land at the large docking station, even if it brought stares. Even as she saw smoke and saw the damage the last battles had wrought onto this place. She was even glad to be ushered to the high tables with all eyes on them, even as it brought dizzying memories of the ceremony with Revan and of her first time at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant after a childhood on Dantooine. There were a scattered amount of Jedi on this planet, Bastila recalled, though they tended to be unorthodox, less concerned about the formal rules and she had even heard some had forgone certain pledges of nonattachment. Still, she hoped to see a familiar brown robe, a lightsaber tucked away on a plain nerf-leather belt.

Instead she was seated among strangers much older and dressed richer than her. People, complete strangers and people in various forms of government, would be here to watch them. What did they see, when they looked at the Sith Lord that had torn apart that galaxy, and what did they see when they looked at her, the woman at his side?

The drinks she inspected cautiously, and felt both paranoid and childish. She was only glad that no one serving her was an assassination droid in a suit to hide some of the rust. Revan, unnecessarily, touched her wrist. “I believe they are non-alcoholic. Drink to your heart’s content.”

She would. She would, because she wanted to. It burned going down, but Bastila kept a straight face. The action also removed Revan’s hand away from her, and that was certainly a good thing.

The music here was louder, faster, more cheerful than what had played at their ceremony. There were plenty of politicians, but the mood is kinder. People are relaxed. They smile and drink and eat and talk in pleasant voices and there is laughter. Some look at her and Revan, but it was curiosity, not desperation and fear. How odd. Shouldn’t they still be fearful of Revan?

Some _must_ be. They nodded and bowed before him as he came close and wanted either to talk to him or slip away. Bastila could feel this unease or hunger when Revan came close to them. She tried not to make faces at that, or the stares she received. Instead she would eat bread and the little rich finger foods the serving staff brought around and have a glass of wine to wash it down with.

Paranoia tickled at her senses, and she turned around. Revan stood there, stood apart from the rest of the strangers,  peering back at her. She jumped, but only slightly. She chided herself for the spark of discomfort, of course she would be looking at him in this room of strangers. She could not leave without him presumably. He was on the smaller, slimmer side, and the T-visor made him conspicuous. Revan could have had any manner of expression hidden under there. She looked back, unafraid.

He came back to her, his cloak aflutter. Then he stood next to her.

“You’re _staring_ at me,” she accused. She sounded like a child.

Revan looked right back and she believed he slowly grinned.

“Where else should I stare?” His mask moved downward, almost _bashful_. “They tell me what a lucky man I am.”

“Who?” What?

He motioned to the world at large. “These other men, other women. Some of it is simple courtesy. Others…some of them would be glad to have you in their bed tonight.”

Bastila tried to keep her face blank. How unsettling. And she was expected to be among them tonight? The few politicians she’d been around had been polite, distant; they shook hands and asked about the war effort and how they were, did they need something? Oh, but she should never assume Revan was telling the truth, and if so, had his own agenda. Her neck felt very exposed.

She needed another drink after hearing that.

Revan watched her empty the glass. “I know something you don’t, little Padawan.”

“Is that right?” Bastila wanted to sigh.

He leaned very close. “I think this time, I will get you to dance.”

“Oh, no. No, Revan.” His clasping hand was iron. But Bastila Shan drew the line. She _must_. Somewhere. Even as she was dragged up and had to experience the sensation of Revan, near and close. All but _holding_ her, as he pulled her towards the music. 

“Do you not know how?” Syrupy fake sympathy. “I will lead.”

“I _know_ how.” Bastila purposely positioned his hand on a less delicate area and grabbed his hand all the more firmly.

Why was she doing this? Why make a fool of herself and play a part in his game to humiliate her? Not for the first time, she wondered how much control Revan had over her.

A knuckle brushed against her spine. “Am I so bad? I’ve never hurt you.”

Except for ruining her life.

She noticed the stares. All the while her husband whispered into her ear, “You see these fools? They have no dignity, politicians.”

It was all very distracting.

“The good ones don’t get elected, you see…And that one over there…” He had a wonderful memory, and she could recall his Master had been a renowned historian. Revan would have done well if he had followed in her footsteps; he could recall every dirty secret and rumor of everyone here. He had done quite well exploiting old wounds in both wars. She wondered how much he knew of her past.

And it seemed he could dance, with a smooth grace, much too close though. He did let her lead, however, and only a disapproving nudge through their Bond and reminder of her own dignity kept her from spinning him at least once. After, he stood there, in her arms, amused as they heard soft clapping that might have been for _them_.

Then she sat down and finished another drink because she it was warm and she felt flushed. Revan followed, because that’s what he did now to her. Someone came to their table and wanted to discuss a continued trade embargo from the Republic, and that was all very good. Another wanted to talk about her dress and Bastila interrupted the twilek to try and explain why the Republic eased the embargo. Then a Republic senator wanted to hear about her Battle Meditation and Bastila tried her best to describe the state she entered even as she tried to not let Revan hear any details. Another wanted to have her discuss Republic plans for the future, the _Sith_ plans for the future. What were her thoughts on…? A toast happened at some point, and she drank even if it was to her marriage. He wanted to dance again, and she somehow agreed because what else was there to do. Distantly, she was aware of both the stares, and the music slowing down, becoming hauntingly personal and dare she say, _romantic._  

Then at some point she was stumbling down and into him, and Revan was laughing, touching her face, and patting her hair, messing it up. Rude. “I think my Padawan might be telling me its time to go home now.” His voice was giddy beneath the modifier and she thought that sounded _gross._ He was a gross man and had no right touching her at all, or making jokes with her or escorting her home.

No. She didn’t want to go home with him. She wanted to go home to the Republic, to the Jedi.

“It’s too late for that now, Shan.” His mask pressed into her forehead, chilly against the flushed skin. She slapped at it and hurt her hands. Still, he winced, and Bastila considered that a victory.

Revan insisted she lean on him, even while they retrieved their coats. Her poor face was briefly crushed into his shirt front while he ignored her complaints and tried to slip her jacket onto her. Bastila wished she could ignore the sensation of his hands on her back and shoulders. People were laughing at them, but she decided she would not care.

The ride was bumpy and cold. He was bumpy and cold every time she nudged against him. He kept clearing his throat, and she found that fascinating. As she did the darkness of that visor. Underneath were the yellow color of his eyes, and it felt a hidden thrilling secret that she knew what he looked like under there. No one else knew, at that party.

“Bastila.” He swallowed, and something in his throat clicked.

“What?”

“I do believe this Bond has some more unintended consequences.”

“ _What_?”

“I’m feeling rather dizzy myself.” Was that a slur? “You’ve gotten us both _drunk_ , fool girl.”

Bastila didn’t believe him until he needed two tries to get out of the small ship. The Sith Lord did his best to walk in a straight line, and when he insisted she stay close Bastila was sure it was for his benefit as much as it was hers. She only tripped once and was glad of that. Revan did not parade her through the ship, but took her to their cabin so she could die in peace. “You’ve embarrassed me and the Order enough, I do believe.”

Inside, he peeled off his mask finally, to reveal cheeks that might be flushed. She herself collapsed on the cool tiled floor of the kitchen. She had wanted water, but suddenly it didn’t seem worth the effort. “Shut up!”

He crouched by her side, one hand held out to steady himself. The buttons on his sleeve glowed in the light overhead. He had combed his hair, and applied something to around his eyes and added something to take notice from his chalky thin skin. Why had he bothered? No one would see his face but her. “Poor drunk little Padawan.”

“Your fault!”

“Well, I suppose I can join you. _Further._ ” Revan rose with a grace she resented and began to loot through the shelves. “Why stay sober on your account, on this occasion? And with a cranky, drunk Padawan? Ah. Here. It was a gift. For…our wedding I believe.”

“What are you doing?”

He popped open the bottle. “A toast.”

The bloody git was going to make her sick. “No more.”

“I don’t believe I offered you any.” Revan inspected the bottle. If she’d gotten _him_ drunk from her drinks, then he was going to get her even _drunker_ from his own. Bastard.

“Now _you’re_ the drunk one!”

“No. No. It’s still you. It’s you in addition to me.” He decided to forgo the glass, and drank from the bottle like an animal. His throat muscles worked loudly. A long sigh of pleasure after he lowered the bottle. “Did you enjoy our evening, Shan? Did you enjoy being in my arms _,_ dancing the night away?”

“Shut up!” Bastila had not! Except. Well. She had not…disliked leaving the ship and being around others and having conversations that were not arguments about her accent or Force powers. Those people had been _respectful_ , they had known her as Bastila Shan, who was powerful Jedi in her own right, one that had married Revan to save the Republic. They did not skulk from the shadows, or ignore her, or harass her about her hairstyle or her standing in the Order. “I did not.”

“Are you saying I was insufficient dance partner?”

“…yes.” Because she hadn’t wanted to dance at all. And _she_ had led him.

“I’ll have you know, I am quite graceful.”

She snorted, quite loudly. It may well have been true the man to best the Mandalore was graceful, hell anyone that went about in that ridiculous cape must have some skill never to get it stuck in a doorway or caught underfoot, but to hell with giving him any credit.

He took that as a challenge, because of course he did. The Council had told her to watch him, to inspect him, to see if there was a man there that was worth redemption. Look within him, Padawan, and find the light side. Bastila looked, she did; she peered deep with both eyes open, searching within the Revanchist, for the Jedi Knight, for the man that had wanted to save the galaxy and lost his way.

Revan…looked like an idiot. One thing he could not do, it turned out, was dance by himself, drunk. Especially without music. He spun and nearly broke his ankle. He grin was loony. She wanted to tell him that. She wanted to tell him a lot of things. “You look a fool, Revan.”

He forgot his song and dance. “Why’s that? You’re the one on the ground like a drunk.”

“I am not _a_ drunk. I am drunk.” Bastila tried to be just as logical in listing why he was a moron. “You have no coordination. There’s no music playing. I bet you’re going to trip on that cape!”

“Fine.” He was skipping over to the screens and fussing with the Holonet. Then he was slipping off his cape, and _throwing_ it at her. “If this is what it takes.”

She shoved aside his black cape that still felt unsettlingly warm. How terrible, to see him like this, and to find that he enjoyed popular cantina music. “I’ve known it from the very moment we _met_ ,” he crooned along with the song. “No doubt in my mind where you _belong_.” His singing was worse than the dancing.

He winked at her, most definitely, when noticing she was looking at him. “If you’re expecting me to remove more of my clothing, well, I will need a few more drinks…”

“I can’t believe I danced with you.” She covered her face with her arm. “I can’t believe I _married_ you.”

“Ah, but you did. We have entered wedded bliss together. Actually.” Revan came close, dropping next to her. He was crouched, on his knees and palms. “ _Actually_ , I have a question I have been wanting to know the answer to a long time. Tell me oh drunk Padawan, my _Bindo_ , my _Yusanis_. What did the Jedi do that made you agree to this situation?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did they tell you that you _must_ marry me, or you would be exiled? There must have been some reward in this for you. You…you don’t seem the type to get involved in some wild romance. Unless it is just for me.” He raised an eyebrow. “You fell in love with me from afar and jumped at the chance to marry me. I understand.”

She laughed and laughed. She laughed so hard she hit her head against the back of the counters and rolled against it, low on her back, tears in her eyes. She laughed until all she could manage was choked giggles and needed several moments to just breathe loudly through her mouth, dampness streaming down her face.

Revan frowned. “Very well then. I still have other questions.”

Bastila’s smile went away. “You always do.”

“What did the Jedi Council to expect? What if I had been a monster?”

“They told me…” Her throat tightened and her vision swam. She remembered standing there, hearing what she already knew when it came to the Order’s pull over the Senate. The back of her head hurt. “To do my duty.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t. “My life is given freely to the Jedi.”

“Including your _body_?”

Yes. Yes, but not the way you’re thinking. “You’re disgusting!”

His grin was lopsided. “Does this mean we will become quite close? I do see the way you look at me…”

Bastila grimaced, momentarily sober. “You are delusional.”

“Your fault for Bonding us. Your girlish romantic dreams of a prince ruined me.” He sighed.

She was sure now, definitely sure: she hated Revan. “I _never_ dreamed of marriage.”

“But you agreed to it.”

“Yes. For the Republic. For the Order. I do confess.” She glanced at her arms. “I think of this as another test.”

“Another test? For Knighthood?”

Something _funny_ was in his tone and she didn’t like that. “Something like that. The Council would not have sent me if they did not trust I would do the right thing?”

“What’s the right thing in situation?”

Bastila sat straight and still. Should she tell him? Yes, why not tell him, and show that there was a real reason she was here, putting up with him. “Turn you back to the light.”

The Sith grinned. “And this would lead to you becoming a Knight? Or a _Master_?” His tone was arch, sarcastic.

Bastila turned away. “Not exactly.” But _yes._ Yes, exactly. The Jedi would see how much they could trust her, and reward that trust in return. She would bring Revan back to the Order as well as stop the war, save the Republic, stop the Sith. How could they not knight her after that? She would be a Master soon, wouldn’t she? Why wouldn’t the Order want to promote her and give her more responsibility? Even if she was, she was now, married to the leader of the Sith Empire…

“You married me because you thought it would lead to a promotion?” Revan looked taken aback. He retreated back on his heels so he could sit higher than her. “You are full of surprises, Shan.”

As though she was given a true choice! “Yet _you_ proposed.”

“Yes, I did. Gladly.” Revan perked up. “And I would do it again.”

Ugh. Ugh, why? She looked into his face, still florid and eyes alight. “Why me?”

Revan always had answers. But often they were not useful. “Fate. The Force. Both.”

“Is that why?” Her head rolled on her neck as she stared at him. She had other questions too. “Because of what happened on your flagship?”

Revan’s stare jumped about before settling on her eyes. “You think I married you because I fell in love with you from afar, hmm, the Last Hope of the Republic?” He let that one linger, so she could frown and hate him a little more.

Finally, he continued with some eye-rolling, “The fate of the galaxy is at stake. You have a gift, one that we will need. You saved me as well, and have proven to be helpful. I trust you, to some extent. Marriage was convenient.”

“It is _not_.” Of course Revan didn’t care for her as a person. And obviously he wouldn’t have cared that she’d tried to help him, and hadn’t finished the job that Malak had started. No, Revan would only see her as weak for caring, and he’d only stoop to pay any attention to the Padawan because of her Battle Meditation. Like so many others, she was just a tool for him.

Revan shrugged. “Who knows, you may be the first Jedi to be rewarded with a Masterhood by marriage. If not, you can still obtain the powers and abilities of a Master, with or without a title.”

That was true and she didn’t need a title, but she wanted it. Hadn’t she earned it, with all she’d done, all she’d given up? And that was before even marrying Revan. She had _married_ Revan, the Sith Lord, the Revanchist. That deserved recognition. They could have at least Knighted her so she wouldn’t have to listen to his taunts about her rank.

“It’s not _fair_.”

“Little in life is. Yet we continue on, regardless. Usually, anyway. Jedi can become quite distraught in their grief.” He rolled his eyes to look at her. “Some can lose themselves in despair.”

Bastila wanted to throw something at him again. I am not so _weak_ , and don’t remind me of what you—of what you have done. Revan must know all about despairing Jedi and what it meant to lose themselves. He had done that, she marveled, he had struck the Jedi at so many angles and left them reeling, hurt, dizzy, not unlike her right now.

“I was wrong. I have to tell you this.” Revan was swallowing thickly. “When we were attacked and separated. We should never have separated. I should have stayed by your side and protected you.”

That was what he felt bad about? “I was fine. We were fine. Whatever.” She should be happy he had any remorse…

“I’m your husband. Your Bondmate. I should be helping you.” Revan looked earnest and young, a Knight. Those ears stuck out and made him look like some fledging little Sith, like a teenager playing dress up. The jerk. “It’s so strange, that we should be here together. Married. Not murdering each other.”

“Innit?” What had she just said? Oh she hadn’t said anything like that for years, not since she’d left homeworld, Mother would be so--

His voice deepened. “Mmhhmm. Bastila. Your voice. Your accent is all _slurred_. You sound like a farm girl, Shan. Like you should be grubbing in the dirt of some bog.”

Well, his own was awful. “You sound like you belong in a pub!”

“A ‘pub’? No, no, you do. You’re the drunk one.” But he lurched wildly when he gestured.

“Because of you. Now.” She needed to get up and leave. This ship. This room. “Help me up.”

Revan dragged her up, and then manhandled her to her room. _Her_ room. He was all strong grips on her elbows, her spine, guiding her with his hands. “You look nice, Bastila.”

“It’s just a _dress_.”

He ran an unwanted finger against her bare neck and let her crash into a wall trying to move away. “I would very much enjoy seeing you wear that again.”

The Padawan rubbed her bruised knee, her neck. “Why?”

He darted around her, pulling at her sleeves. “It’s rather intriguing, seeing this side to you.”

“ _Why_?”

“You seem different. But you’re still my Padawan.”

She didn’t like the location of his head, so near and close to her belly so she had to look down. “I am not your Padawan! You aren’t my Master!”

“Aren’t you? I think I have paperwork stating that you are mine now. Legally and everything.”

“No. No!” Bastila was adamant on the facts. “If you own me, then I own you, Revan. I _remember_ the paperwork.”

His smile lit his face up with a certain dark pleasure. She felt something shivering through their Bond, and realized it was a bright red hunger. It was something that tightened the stomach, and threatened to move lower, and left you breathless and clammy about the palms. It was new, this feeling, and she wanted it to stop and to explore it at the same moment. She settled for shifting and ignore the way the fabric suddenly pulled and rubbed.

“ _Fun_ ,” he insisted.

He was a frightening Sith Lord, this man who had ruined her life and countless others. She pushed him. Unfortunately, it was further into the bedroom.

“I don’t want you here,” Bastila muttered. It was not _proper_.

He regained his footing, picking himself up from on the ground. “I never did thank you, for helping us. During the sabotage. With your Battle Meditation. Even if it was unnecessary.”

Everything she did for Revan was _Important_ and _Necessary_. “You owe me your life!”

The Sith’s head was tilted, like a hound hearing something echoing through the valley. Now was the time you were supposed to slip away, before it noticed you. Or hope you had your lightsaber with you and that it worked correctly instead of only one side lighting up and leaving you half unarmed and entirely a fool. “I like your dress a lot.”

She glanced at him, suddenly wanting to giggle. “You want it?”

“On you. I like it on _you_. Or maybe off you.”

She was perplexed, and wanted to hold his face still. “If you like the way I look in it, why would you want me to not wear it?”

Revan looked at her through the fingers on his face, over his eyes. The skin was warm, smooth in places there and rough here. She shouldn’t be touching him. But the skin was clammy and fascinating, to see it stretch and move when she directed her hands. “I want to take it off you.”

“I am not so drunk I can’t. Cannot. Undress myself.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I want to be the one to take it off you.” His accent did slur and become ridiculous. “Peel it off you.”

“ _What_?”

“With my teeth.”

“That sounds unhyge, _unhygene_ —stupid.”

“I think it would be _fun_.” His grin reminded her of that kath hound. He was hissing, the words pressed to the roof of his mouth and harsh slipping past his teeth. “I think a lot of things with you are fun. _You’re_ fun. Even though you shouldn’t be. I like your voice. People _look_ at you, when you enter a room. At your face. At all of you. You’re famous, and powerful, and _attractive_. And you know it. They look at you, you know that. I understand why now. I even like your accent.”

“What?” Some of that was very, very bad. “You’re distract. _Distracting_.”

“ _You’re_ distracting.” Why was he such a chatter-y Sith? “With your odd little nose and pigtails. I adore watching you, do you know that? When you frown because things aren’t going your way. That way your nose crinkles when you’re angry. When you stomp out of a room.”

“ _What_?” Her hand fell way when she sat on the bed and fumbled with her shoes. Why so many straps? They were quite uncomfortable and they confused her almost as much as Revan. Why were these confusing things part of her life? “You’re _odd_. I don’t know how to handle you.”

His hands were on her shoulders, tugging and pushing. “ _Bodily,_ I should think.”

Her head found a pillow and wanted to stay there. Revan was pushing and shoving her, ignoring her protests. “Roll over, you drunk, or else you’ll choke.”

She wanted to punch and kick but settled for rolling over. “Get out!”

“No. I want to stay here. Bastila.”

She tried to close her eyes but he prodded her until she opened them. “Bastila! I have to stay here. You’re under my protection and I swore to keep you from coming to harm. I said. I said you were my Bondmate and partner, _forever_. Even when you betray me and attempt to seize control.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Revan!” she wailed, trying to move away. “Now let me sleep. Your fault.”

“I like you. Bastila. I do like you a lot. Even when you wail like a kinrath. I like your angry face and your serious eyes. I like your hair. We have _fun_.”

She closed her eyes and didn’t care what he was mumbling to himself. Let him say crazy things. She didn’t care.

She would just

_ignore him_

She awoke, punching and kicking the pillows and air and mattress, half-awake and completely sick.

Bastila crawled and then fell out of the bed and then crawled again. These legs were her own, and she had a confusing stir of memories, of crouching on a deck of a ship while losing herself to her meditation. The sweat on her neck as she wondered if she would awake if the vessel was shot to pieces, or if she would feel only others’ despair as she joined the Force. All to fight the man in that bed there.

Wait. Bastila did a double-take. The Jedi recoiled. Horror froze her limbs and chilled her blood. She wanted to yell and just barely kept it back as her illness was momentarily forgotten.

What in the hell was _he doing there_?

No. First things first.

Stand up. Get to the refresher. Be sick, quietly.  Find the shower.

The Jedi wiped profusely at her face before fumbling with her wrinkled outfit. She wanted to dress into something else, but did not dare leave in only a robe or towel with Revan so near and proper clothes so far. Even getting into the shower was a struggle as though she had just been in a particularly physical fight. Real water came out and she choked and fumbled with the faucets and knobs and settings, buttons both unreadable and slick. The ribbon were tugged out of her hair, soaked and tangled and she tossed the bright fabric to the floor to sort out later. Her body seemed to belong to someone else, someone slow and dumb and dizzy and sick. When she coughed, she had to lean against the tiled walls and take a second to recuperate.

An awful experience, all around. And there was still the matter of the person in that bed.

Bastila shuddered, turned the water on hotter, and then found the soap.

Terrible things had happened last night. The loss of her dignity for one. Her reputation. They had danced, she recalled as she poured shampoo into her eyes accidentally. She cursed her aim, and his lies about the alcohol content. There had been dancing and merriment and Revan had been smug and indecent. He’d wanted to embarrass her, show off his influence on the Jedi, and make sure everyone was aware that he had Bastila Shan under his control.

Then they had returned to this accursed ship. Alcohol was rightfully looked down upon by the Jedi, and should be completely banned by the Sith. Revan drunk was even worse than sober Revan, _somehow_. When she recalled the exact phrases he had used, Bastila quickly turned the water off and found the towel hanging there on the wall.

He had...he had been—drunk. That was all. Revan had sworn he had no intention of...procreation and did not insist on consummation of the usual kind. They had danced and if his hands lingered then and after, that was just to unnerve her, and she would not let it do so. Her guards had warned her of being alone with Revan in her room, and yet they most certain had been _that_ and in _there_.

She dried off and wished she wouldn’t have to return to her room to find clothing. But she did, she very much need to do that. The crew from the night before, who had insisted on doing her makeup and hair just so, had neatly left her usual leather training suit on the desk. She could grab it, run back into the refresher, and put it on behind a locked door where she could be certain no one could see. Then creep out and pretend everything was normal.

He was still sleeping. There was something humble about him lying there, dark hair mussed and turned away from her. His face was morbidly smooth, young, in sleep. There was that dimpled chin and firm mouth, intense eyes hidden. Long eyelashes. Small ears that stuck out as no Sith should possess. She was still a little drunk perhaps. Bastila resolved to never drink again. Gathering clothes took a long time, and she was silent as possible about it. Let him sleep five more hours; Bastila needed more time to think and recover.

Strong caffe and lots of it was needed as well. She dressed in the refresher and then left it for the kitchen. She emptied glass after glass of water and recited the Code. Then cursed Revan. He had told her another lie and confused her. Ah, Force, but now she was remembered all the stupid things she had said to him last night. All the...things he had said in return. Bastila stopped swallowing and nearly choked.

Well, that dress was going right in the incinerator. What a shame. Yet it had to be done.

The door opening made her jump and hold a hand close to her mouth like a small child caught. He was squinting, eyes sunken and bloodshot more than usual. His hair was mussed, wild across his forehead. With those crumbled clothes and crumpled looks, Revan looked very nearly mortal. “Why. Hello.”

Bastila glared.

“Ahem.”

She glad for the thing in her hands. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

This would be okay. They would deal with this. She would deal with it. He found a mug and she poured him tea.

“I think I should apologize,” Revan said, looking into his beverage.

“For what?” Everything. And then some more. And not just to her, but the galaxy at large. He should be groveling and saying nothing but apologies!

“Last night. I said some things.” He peeked at her. “Things perhaps best left unsaid.”

Like what? Yes, the man been slightly more lecherous than normal, but Revan did love to tease and joke when he sensed some weakness. Because, of course Bastila was uncomfortable with his comments. Like anyone would be. Wait. Did that mean he—no, Bastila would not think about that. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

For once, the Sith did not argue. “Agreed.”

They drank tea and tried to reduce their suffering. Eventually, she left to fix her hair and then took a short nap that only made her tangles and cloudy head worse. She would forgo the talk to the Council and settle for a short written message to assure them that things were just fine between her and Revan. No, he was not trying to tempt her to the dark side, and she had avoided those gifts of Sith holocrons, even if she didn’t know where they had come from, perhaps Korriban? He was acting professional and she would continue to monitor him.

Then she collapsed on the bed for a long necessary night’s sleep.

Waking up was a necessary shame, especially when she read the reply from the Counsel back, and realized they must have seen or heard something of the party because they were very concerned about her state.

This was Revan’s fault, and she would not forget that, even as he came in the next morning to make tea and exchange polite small talk. He acted decently enough and left out offers of dark powers and other such things to teach her. Let’s talk about Corellia instead, and HK-47’s newest sniper rifle.

Ignore all the rot that came after, from the Holonet that was breathless to report from miscellaneous rumors from supposed eyewitnesses about how she and Revan had behaved. Which was apparently in such a way that others found scandalous in their shamelessness. Or otherwise, quite poignant in how they’d found such a ‘passion for each other despite everything.’ Bastila would not dignify such nonsense. She had not been lost in his gaze (you couldn’t even see his eyes!)  and he had not been charmingly graceful, and they were not ‘ so madly in love that it was obvious spectacle for those miles around.’

How dare they. 

Bastila decided to forget what he had said, all of that nonsense.

…and when that failed, she decided she would simply not let it happen again. Bastila would take it as an opportunity to aid in her study of him. It had been in a more relaxed atmosphere, around others when he was both a diplomat of sorts and a frightful dread Sith Lord, and that should be cataloged. Every moment can be a chance to better study this odd man she had formed a Bond with, on accident. And that’s what she told the Jedi Council.  They told her to be careful; they told her not to trust Revan, Bond or not.

Such a state allowed the thought to come to her, Bastila would believe. It came in a slow dawning realization that took days to finally, fully, place: Revan was acting like this perhaps because he _had no idea what to do_. Oh, he covered it up by ordering her about, asking her questions, _bothering_ her. Revan was nothing in not tactical. But there would be these silences between them, when they waited for the other to speaks, and Revan would sit or stand there, and she could feel him trying to focus. She could feel his stares.

This was not at all what _he_ had been expecting at any point. Jedi did not take spouses, not anymore, and what Sith would be fool enough to take a lover. What was his experience in such things? His Masters? Which one, his first Master or the other Jedi Masters that didn’t have hidden affairs? Was that what he thought might happen? During the war, sneak away for a clandestine affair and whelp a child, follow his Master in that as well? When could he have ever expected to find himself sleeping on a perhaps a spare couch in a separate room while a furious pacing young woman he had taken into marriage refused his presence and had commandeered his bedroom?

She hoped Revan had chosen a very uncomfortable couch. She hoped he had to curl up on it and developed spine problems. She hoped it was nothing like his bed—that comfortable bed too, sheets of fine silk, and how Bastila still spat blood at that thought. Out of spite, she would begin to sleep there and take pleasure in the wide, empty area. She could toss and turn all she wanted. Alone, if not lonely and certainly not at peace.

There was an odd tension now. It was different from the tension from before.

She had long since given up her silent treatment as Revan kept his distance. Now they both refused to be remain quiet.

Revan would leave the room, incensed at some little thing (at her spreading butter on her toast too loud, for _example_ ) or the dysfunctions of his government that must surely be rotting the organization from the inside. Then return hours later to rant about the entire Jedi Order, its ethos, its teachings, its failing. She would sit there at the table, grim-faced and serious as the Republic commanders looked away from Revan to her for an explanation. Bastila would have the option to remain calm, or she might roll her eyes and go, “Oh, really? If the Republic is so terrible, then why haven’t you razed it then?”

He would stand there, angry. Then a slow grin would spread. Since when was she suddenly so funny, so amusing? Those frightened her, the smiles. Because they didn’t frighten her as much as they used too. “Why, then I wouldn’t be holding up to my end of the deal, would I?”

He was a terrible maniac with a messiah complex and complex trust issues that led him to conclude that only droids with their programming could be depended upon, and he had an arrogant clip to his accent when angry. But then he made jokes and teased her about her hair and face she made when upset. He reveled in their situation, and liked to brag of their shared victory, the one battle they had fought together. “Those fools thought to ruin our relationship.”

Bastila stopped moving and looked up from her briefing. They had been trying to end this marriage. That involved ending her life and of course she had fought, but wasn’t getting out of this arrangement something to be considered? If they had come to her, and asked if she wanted to leave, this second, escape--No, this was her lot in life. Revan was hers.

The Jedi nearly blushed.

“Aw. Bastila. Does the thought of our marriage warm you so?”

That was another unfortunate, new thing that Bastila was forced to struggle with. Revan could _embarrass_ her, despite all her control, and often loved to test out that newfound ability. He accused her of staring at him throughout their meetings (which was a total and complete untruth!) and leaned in close to ask if she saw anything she liked—while the holographs that revealed projected costs of repairs continued on Republic guards watched with twitchy fingers and Inner Rim Senators with distaste and suspicion. 

And how was she supposed to respond to that? “No, I don’t!”

But that only got stares and side-ways glances from the officials in the room, many of whom were already wary of them both. Bastila understood quite well how they felt. Yet she could only do so much to ignore him. Revan could burrow under her skin, like some awful parasite. He had been in her bed—no, she would not think about that. She could not afford to brood on things she could not change. It had happened once, when she had been incapacitated, and never again.

Revan enjoyed teasing, and she could only talk blandly with the Council of such matters. How to describe that he had insisted she tell him of the Jedi’s plans for the new Academy, of something to replace Ossus, to bolster their numbers. And what could she respond with? ‘Oh, no, we definitely don’t have enough Jedi for that’? “I am not at liberty to speak of such matters.”

Revan took it in stride. “Well then. I’ll have to seduce the truth out of you.”

Bastila laughed and laughed. The brunette woman was sure to make it loud and aloof and disdainful. “I’m sure.”

His amused expression would spread slow, and wide. _Wicked_. It brought out the dimples in his cheeks, and let you notice the one in his chin. You could see the creases of his face and way his amber eyes crinkled. That is, when he bothered to remove that mask. Bastila could not state truly if it was an improvement when he did reveal that face. “Stop that now. It’s rude.”

“To laugh in your face?” She smiled.

“No, to _lie_.”

She nearly ducked. “Oh, stop.”

How to describe him leaning over the table in the mornings to ask how she’d slept last night. “Lonely? _Cold_?”

“Quite comfortably,” Bastila gritted out, trying not to recoil.

He would lift a brow and reach for the caffe. “Glad to know you enjoy being in my bed after all.”

Bastila had made a point of acting disgusted and finding a pretense to stomp away, hating his amused chuckle echoing behind her. She knew he knew she was only so annoyed at him anymore, and he knew that as well. How terrible, to have their _shared inside jokes_ and expectations at seeing the other during meal time and exchanging barbs. It made one very nearly yearn for something as clear-cut as torture. 

She dreamed sometimes, of their first meeting. It was hard to tell then, if it was solely her there, dreaming of that. Sometimes she was standing there, raising her weapon, confident in skill and ability and timing, a warmth in her limbs; they had planned this well. In others, she stood there in heavy cape and thick mask, watching herself approach as hot pleasure ran through the spine in a thrum of anticipation. She would wake, confused, cold.

“ _Will_ you train with others on the ship?” Revan asked over freshly buttered toast the next morning. She took a bite and promised herself to eat more in the mess hall, even as she wary and unsettled by turning her back to any Sith. And the food was markedly worse.

“I will not,” she answered.

The Sith cleared his throat. There was anger there beneath the placid expression on his face, Bastila knew. “Do you _not_ want to continue training?”

“I will not train alongside these Sith.” Her declaration sounded firm, as though avoiding the people on this ship were an entirely mutual decision.

“Then I’ll train only you.”

“You?”

“I studied under the Echani as they trained my soldiers. I fought Mandalore himself. Surely I can handle fighting you, Shan.” Revan just loved to brag. He was making a face under there, a hint of a sneer. “Perhaps you may learn something after all?”

“I think not.”

“Are you so arrogant?”

“It is not arrogance.” She did not want to learn from Revan. Not these things. Not exactly these things. This was training, not espionage. “Simply a statement of my opinion on the matter.”

The _right_ opinion.

“What if we are attacked again?”

That was a fair remark. Things were never calm with Revan. Still, she was reluctant to agree to any of his suggestions. It didn’t seem wise to listen to them. Besides, when had Revan ever helped her?

“We will spar,” the Sith promised.

Oh would they now?

“I’ll make a fierce warrior of you Shan,” he vowed.

Oh would he now?

Bastila nearly _smiled_. It felt grim. It felt angry. “If you insist.”

“I won’t even insist you call me ‘Master,’” he finished.

She grit her teeth. “How kind. I suppose that would pass the time.”

Only after he’d glided away in that superior, light-footed way of his could she regain her caution. What had she gotten into?

Still, she arrived in the training chambers the next morning, armed as usual. It could have been another day except for cleaning the morning from her schedule. The main room was not large. A few single Sith lingered around, staring at her with obvious hostility or curiosity.  They would kill her if not for Revan. Or would have tried anyway. Bastila restrained her hand from reaching for her weapon.

He, late, arrived with his droid. “That way you’ll play fair. And he can keep points.”

“This isn’t a game, Revan,” Bastila scolded.

He ignored her complaint to stare her over. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“What?” She glanced down at her usual training garb. This is what she _always_ wore.

“I suppose it’s comfortable enough? Looks a bit…tight.”

Bastila looked at him, unamused.

“I suppose that’s where the fun comes in though.” He was smiling behind that mask. Perhaps even _winking. “_ I’ll have to work harder now to get you out of the next outfit you wear to impress me.”

His droid spoke up. “Question: I do not know why my Master wishes to remove the packaging from the meatbag. It seems like it would be easier to spoil that way.”

Both she and Revan both agreed to ignore that. “I have _never_ worn anything to impress you, Revan.”

“If you didn’t wear anything, I might be more impressed…”

She was going to harm him, one day, Bastila suspected. The way he pushed, with that grin under that mask as though teasing, as though wanting you to believe he was only teasing—but sometimes she did not. Sometimes, Bastila wondered if he even realized that she might wonder if he was speaking in jest or if he _himself_ understood that there might be sincerity. Or if she was completely wrong and overthinking his comments. She could be wrong about him, it would not be the first time. And of course she didn’t dare mention any of this to the other Jedi.

They would chasten her for such questions and doubts. It does not matter what he wants. You make sure he doesn’t get it. And she was nearly blushing again, being inspected by medical personal. Or Revan, in the doorway, leaning down, or with an arm around her as he led her inside towards her bed. 

Her eyes swept the room. “Will you have you droid fire on me?”

“Of course not. You don’t have to be concerned at all about him. He will protect both of us, from each other.” Revan chuckled while the droid stood there, rusting, deadpan. “And don’t worry about hurting yourself when you fall into my arms, Shan, I’ll make sure to catch you.”

Then he _winked_.

Bastila was already regretting her decision.

Still, she was _here_. And why not study Revan more, just in case.

She had not let her training go to rust, but the people on this ship were Sith. None were to be trusted. The attack had been a sign to continue her training, Revan had not been wrong about that.

Revan stretched only slightly. His robes were plain, and he had removed his armor, but not his mask. He turned his neck sharply with a soft _pop._ The Sith was much more casual this time, feigned perhaps, but Bastila recalled their earlier confrontation. He had not been joking then. No, instead he had been cold with fury and confident, easily showing off with his blade as he all but challenged the Jedi there forward. “You’ve never fought anyone like me. I _was_ Jedi. And I am Sith. I know to combine both light and dark side in balance. And--”

She _ran_ at him.

Revan was not expecting that. How wonderful, to see his _reaction_. A moment of stumbling, him unsure, and she very _sure_. Together, they tumbled and fell. Bastila would not give him the chance to use his weapon or the Force.

She very nearly got him into a headlock. She twisted his arm around sharply, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of air, even as he dug closer and hands sought a nerve above her elbow. Bastila was in minor pain and knew tomorrow would be uncomfortable. Still, she grinned at him, out of sight, pulling him to the ground and pinning him by the wrists before he could fully resist.  

He had not expected her to be a fighter. Not many did. They thought Bastila Shan spent only her fights meditating and being protected by others. Oh, but she was not some helpless girl, and she wielded her double-bladed weapon as well as any other warrior. She was a fighter, a Jedi Sentinel, and had more gifts besides the Battle Meditation. Revan smiled back up at her, raising one hidden brow she was sure, and _waiting_.

Then he was up like a serpent, rolling her onto her back, all power in his upper body. When he pulled her arms back she used to legs to wrap round his waist, for leverage to pull him back down, keep him close and not let him get the upper hand. Lock him in place. Keep close. Find pulse points and soft spots. 

His breath was rasping.

Her breathing was deep, even, and she felt the coldness of the ship around her, the heat from him.

He pushed with his hips, lifting and rolling her so he was on top, hands searching for her wrists. She curled her feet, to bash into the inside joints of his knees and making Revan fall with a grunt. Into her face. She feared a sharp bash to the face, and then feared that he wouldn’t move but just stay there. If he hadn’t kept his mask on, she would have felt his breath on her cheek and neck and ear. Her hands worked free but then couldn’t seem to think of where to go. The back of his head to pull him up by the binds of his helmet or into his kidneys or jab into his eyes or any other place. Or grab his lightsaber, right there. They could go to plenty of places. And where could his hands go?

They rolled away from each other.

“Declaration: I suppose that one can be counted as a ‘tie,’ as much as it pains me Master.”

Revan cleared his throat. From somewhere, “That was…interesting. I did not expect you to be so spirited.”

She was fine. Nothing had…Bastila was just fine. She rubbed her arm. She had not shamed herself in any way. He had trained with the Echani, who were renowned for their martial arts and had a culture focused on combat and supposedly involved ritualized battles and sparring. Revan had experience with some of the strongest fighters in the galaxy. He had tricks. She had not embarrassed herself, and had fought as well as to be expected. Hand-to-hand combat had not been her forte exactly.

He lent her a hand to pull her up. “Bastila?”

“Once more?”

“Oh yes.”

The next time, his hideous droid pulled them apart. “Warning: Master, you warned me to separate you two if it grew too physical.”

Bastila smirked around her split lip. Coward.

HK continued to speak, and she needed to concentrate to make out his words under her heartbeat and heavy breath and ringing ears from a hard punch. “Statement: Especially if the Jedi began to cheat and tried to ‘seduce’ you.”

Revan’s tongue slipped out to prod a swollen lip. “Not quite, HK.”

“Excuse me!?”

Blood had run down from his cheek or down his chin and darkened the front of his armor. It was smeared, and she feared it might be on her clothes from the last bout. “Unless Bastila would like to disagree and state for the official record, that this was a seduction attempt?”

She searched around for the blade that had fallen _somewhere_. “Never again, Revan!”

There were others here, fewer than before but still staring. Now she saw open interest on their faces. One smirked. Had _they_ wondered who might win the fight? Only his droid had come to Revan’s rescue. It occurred to her that if the other Sith saw, they might not intervene, no matter what the outcome was. She looked at their dull faces and watchful eyes. She was very alone here, surrounded by enemies.

Revan touched her sore arm. His squeeze was light, and Bastila jerked it away too slowly. “Tomorrow then?”

“We’ll see,” she replied, hearing the lame tone, the stutter in her voice. She feared her expression betrayed her doubt. She didn’t even care if his droid was declaring that Revan was the winner.

The Jedi left him to shower. She would insist on having dinner in the common mess hall, and ignore the stares and hope dearly that her food was not poisoned, but if it was, hopefully she had escaped the worst by eating so little. Then back in her chambers, where she was curt to Revan and nothing more. Bastila retired early as well. When he made a quip that he must have _tired_ her out, and she waved it off.  

She dreamed of him that night, somewhere near to her as he ever was now. Cursed and chained. She was pressed into her bed, uncertain if she could and should move. “Bastila. You know one day you will be my apprentice. Just as you became my bride.” His voice was breathy, soft. She realized he was not wearing his mask. She realized he was very close. Again, he was close _again_. She was coming to think he was lying right next to her.

She awoke, alone, and told herself, dreams were not visions.

Breakfast then, hours and hot shower later, and a resolute vow not to spend so much time with him. She bit into her bread and chewed and looked away from him. His sigh into his datapad threatened to bother her.  “I’m afraid I will have no choice but to be the object of your irrepressible charm this morning.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“My schedule is clear.” Revan leaned forward. “Luckily enough for you.”

Bastila was unamused.

Then he surprised her by making an offer: “Would you like to see my room?”

It was a place she had thought of, periodically. Especially after he complained of her taking his chamber and not sharing. She should know where it was, in case of an emergency. And to make sure he wasn’t hoarding some evil Sith artifacts she didn’t know about in here. There could be battle plans drawn up. The Padawan had a responsibility to investigate the Sith, and the Council had told her to watch Revan, and learn what she could from the Dark Lord.

Dreams were not visions.

Besides, it was just as likely Revan’s dream, and she had just been there, as a hostage. But then why would he be dreaming of that…? 

“Well, alright,” she agreed, after a long moment. “If you insist.”

Thus she was led through the hallways with Revan watching behind them.

It was not far away, his room. Tucked away like a forgotten chamber, far from the other rooms and through a narrow hallway. The lock required his hand print and a retina scan, and Bastila remained patient as he revealed the necessary parts of his body. Inside, it was cramped and surprisingly cluttered. Was he a hoarder? The room she stayed in was quite bare.

Books were stacked in piles, physical ancient books, and on top of those, datapads. Countless bits and pieces of droids and miscellaneous mechanism filled the remained space. Him and his droids. Was that a kolto shot, there? Carefully, he brushed pathways clear with his foot, unabashed. “Have a seat.”

She sat on his uncomfortable little cot full of metal bits and datapads and other junk.

It would never have been acceptable to have all this with the Republic military. Perhaps that was why he had defected. This was a statement, a part of Revan, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. That he could be messy, a packrat? It was impersonal, this hoard. Anyone with a bout of kleptomania and mechanical skill could have gathered this impressive pile.

“Don’t you have any…” Bastila struggled to think of sentimental items from the soldiers she had served with. Jedi had no possessions.  “…things from your past?”

He quickly dug out from beneath a stack of spare parts an old picture on the screen of the ‘Revanchists.’ She looked at the figures for a moment. Bastila tried to hide her fascination, and failed. He wore a robe with the hood pulled down, in a sturdy breastplate rather than that Mandalorian armor. So these were the Jedi that left? Malak stood there, clad in red, arms crossed with a proud grin on his pale face as he stood over the other Jedi, and she nearly shuddered. Even with Revan’s thick boots, the other Sith towered above him. There was the General even, over there in corner, all fresh-faced and solemn. “Your eyes were brown?”

“So they were,” he agreed, amiable.

“Your hair was longer as well.”

“Would you prefer it like that?”

“Not particularly.”

He looked so young! Very nearly innocent. The chin dimple was the same and so was that square forehead, those intelligent eyes and wide mouth. There were fewer lines set besides his full, brutal mouth, though his face looked thinner somehow. Those features were less sunken, from the dark side. He was a man with many thoughts on his minds, and Bastila believed he had only wanted to help the Republic at this stage in his life. Odd, to look down at this person and wish she could talk to _him_ , ask him if he had any earthly idea of was to come, and to warn him. The nose, unfortunately, was the same.

“Am I still as handsome as that day?”

“Yes. Most definitely.”

He tittered. “Fair enough. Yet I did manage to attract you, didn’t I?”

“That’s one way to putting it.” ‘Entrapment’ was also another. And ‘blackmail’ was also very accurate. “So why did you leave? So you could fill an entire ship of your own with junk?”

“I’ll tell you Bastila Shan,” he responded, solemnly. “When you get off that Sith holocron.”

Bastila jumped up.

“You know.” A sideways slanting smile and a purr. “If you wanted to become so well acquainted with a Sith, you’d only have to ask.”

“Shut up.” Who kept such a thing on their bed?

“And this is not junk,” he corrected.

“It is _completely_.”

He was mockingly outraged. “How do you think I keep HK in such wonderful shape?”

...is that why there was a flamethrower over there? Oh, Force, why was there a _flamethrower_ over there? Why was he giving _more_ arsenal power to that mad machine?

Bastila cleared her throat. “Is that what this is, your workstation? I thought it was a bed.”

“No reason work can’t be done on a bed.” That was surely a wink. She felt his amusement through their Bond, a warm curl of enjoyment, and tried to disapprove.

He told her of his holocrons, ancient tablets, holos of old battles and histories. Some of them were here, _somewhere_. He showed and offered and hinted. He continued to answer _some_ of her questions, but either obtusely or with lies or little jokes. “Three thousand and twelve. Healthy living you know.” Then Revan might want to show her his old battle plans, things she had studied before, but with teachers and Commanders that her conjecture to go from to explain the details.

Revan told her of going to the Outer Rim, that evening before preparing supper. He had made the loss of the Cathars known to the galaxy. There had been a vision, sent from the Force. Bastila recalled hearing that well. She had been an apprentice on Dantooine, listening breathless (not that she would ever admit that to Revan) to the stories of the fight with the Mandalorians, of their mad rampage through the galaxy. “That’s when you insisted on wearing that absurd mask.”

“Admit it, it makes me look mysterious, and dashing.”

She crossed her arms. “It makes you look like a Mandalorian.”

He held up his hand. “One: that was taken from a Mandalorian who fought back against her short-sighted companions, and suffered for it. Two: masks are psychologically important to their culture. _Three_ : it _does_ make me look heroic. And _four_ , the Mandalorians were not the true threat.”

Bastila leaned in across the table. “What is the real threat then?”

“Complacency.”

She stared at him.

“A culture and its people are defined by their rules and their conflicts. It provides definition to people,” Revan recited. “You are what you say are _not_.”

She scoffed. “I don’t believe that all a society is defined by conflict and war. Also, you are _not_ dashing.”

Revan glared.

“Did you ever fully embrace the Republic military?” she asked her sullen companion.

“We both served, I suppose.”

“Did you ever wear a uniform?” Or had it been Jedi robes? She herself had eschewed the traditional garb for something that brought less attention, and allowed for more freedom of movement.

“A few times. Usually when it was necessary.”

That was an amusing picture. Revan in the traditional Republic uniform, black tunic lined with orange and complete with the hat perched neatly on his head. He must have surely put that on at some point. Why was there no vid of that?

“That makes you smile?”

Had she been smiling? “Oh, I’m sure you were very debonair in it.”

His eyes shone with mischief. “Would you like to see me in it? I’m afraid I don’t have a holo of that…but there are other ways.”

“What, find a Republic uniform? Go to the Corellia and mingle?” She laughed. Revan, there, walking amongst the citizens. Perhaps he would want to try racing in a swoop bike? They could try the local cuisine, such as it was here. Go site seeing. All the while pretending he hadn’t threatened to raze their cities down.

His mouth was pursed. In thought. No, in _plots_. “We would get many stares.”

“Of course we would,” she dismissed. “Revan…Revan what is it?”

“I have a wager, Shan.” He raised both eyebrows and nothing good could come of this. “It so happen, I might be able to get my hands on some Republic armor.”

Stolen, no doubt. Wait, what kind of wager?

“It might even be in my size…” the Sith continued.

Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting?

“--But only if you put on one of my officer’s garb.”

Her feelings must have been made apparent on her face, because Revan laughed. “You look so afraid. It’s not a very becoming look for a Jedi.” His smirk revealed teeth. “But I know what might be.”

“I’m not afraid,” Bastila protested.

“Then you agree?” His smile was a challenge.

Revan was a skilled negotiator, it must be said. That fact was already in the history books. Hadn’t he somehow tricked her into marrying him, after all?

So why should it be such a great surprise to find herself here on Corellia, in disguise, at his behest?  Perhaps it was because she did not burst into flames, with fresh air on her skin and solid ground under her feet. Even the Jedi here were known for having carefree rebellious spirits that often disagreed with the Council. She cursed the Corellian Jedi who had not only married but insisted on cataloging her entire relationship and why it must prove that attachment was acceptable. 

It was not unlike shore leave with the Republic, Bastila assured herself. Though of course now she had fewer duties and Jedi were never given such ‘free time’ to waste away gallivanting (or crawling away rather) from pub to pub. Thankfully; Bastila recalled her last time drinking so heavily. Revan at least spared her from that embarrassment.

There was something spicy in the air, through the thickness of exhaust and smog. At least it was much better laid out than Coruscant. Bastila wondered if it was a good sign that there were fewer people or if being sucked into a crowd might not be safer. The remnants of battles still touched the landscape, in freshly-repaired buildings that cropped up out of the old structures that must have been rusted and torn before Revan had arrived. Still, she liked the air on her neck. As she did being surrounded by relatively carefree civilians enjoying a life free from war. She saw couples walking hand-in-hand or -paw or -fin in that evening hour. The beings would laugh and point and kiss and cherish each other for simply being together, even she could see that.

Bastila turned back to her partner for the night.

He reached up to adjust her hat, and belt. She slapped his hands away. “I’m _helping_ ,” Revan insisted.

They were married, and had been in public before. They would be in disguise. No one knew. And even if they did, Bastila was not disobeying an order. Or following one by Revan. No matter how many people stared. This was strange. Was it wrong? Perhaps this might be a positive step for him. But no, she refused to take his arm, like he was _chivalrous_.

So what if she wore a Sith officer uniform? Bastila was quite the opposite of that, in fact.

He looked…not awful. The orange of uniform did something kind to his eyes. And Bastila preferred him out of his usual infamous Mandalorian armor and cowl or black robes. “You know, I never did wear any of this Republic armor. It was only the officer’s uniform I wore. It’s…rather uncomfortable.”

“How do you think I feel?” Her hair was tucked slightly under her cap, the rest in a plain braid.

“I’ll have you know that fabric is worth more than the last Republic cruiser you were on.”

“Really?”

“Well. Not quite.” He smiled at her frown. “If you wanted something finer, I would have gotten you silk. Perhaps another dress...”

The blood fled from her cheeks. “That’s quite alright.”

When they ordered at the restaurant and were forced to sit still, Bastila thought she knew another reason for the bemusement from the Corellians. People here thought they were on a—a romantic _date_. Someone at another table might be insulted, and want them apart, never knowing they were the two people that were responsible for this peace. People looked disgusted, amused. Some smiled. This was peace. A Sith with a Republic solider. It was obscene and suddenly _funny_ enough for her to duck her head and bite her lip. Like they were breaking common place rules and etiquette, and not the _cause_ for that rule-breaking.  She wasn’t the Last Hope of the Republic and he wasn’t Revanchist the Butcher.

Revan took the helmet off. “Grey is a flattering color on you, Bastila. It brings out the color in your eyes.”

She nearly blushed, and settled for shifting in her seat. He wanted to tease her for playing along. “I was just thinking how I preferred you as a Republic soldier.”

“What a waste that would be,” he replied grandly.

A polite quiet dinner without anyone threatening to shoot another. Two glasses of wine each, Revan leaning across the table, wanting to hear more of Talravin and the temple on Coruscant. You could nearly forget that he had once vowed to burn that temple down and offered so many credits for the heads of the Council. And had made a similar offer for her own life.

He grinned in the low lights, tossing back his head. A touch of cologne lingered around a freshly shaved neck. He had Made an Attempt. He was also enjoying the stares, the attention, and the way she shifted uncomfortably. Revan liked this place, the clutter and chaos. So many droids and ships, and he seemed to know all their technical schematics. The Sith could walk around and get lost in it, and Bastila wondered why a man so bent on control would want that. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?” he asked, guessing what her disapproving stare meant.

“I am here with you, after all.” How did Revan have such a _lewd_ smile? “Such a charming, pretty thing at my side, and so obviously enamored with her companion. How could she not be? Tall, handsome and ruthless...”

The Jedi snorted. “And how much of that criteria do you fit?”

“Three for three,” he crowed.

“Oh, _really_.” Bastila widened her eyes. “That’s quite a statement for a man hardly taller than me.”

His smile deepened. “Ah. Does that mean I fit the others then?”

“ _Ruthless_ ,” she allowed.

“Spared you, didn’t I?”

“I believe I saved you, Revan. Or don’t you recall the details of our first meeting?”

Revan stared at her, long enough for her to become uncomfortable. She wanted to glance away, but would not. “You’re _flirting_ ,” he simpered. “How adorable.”

“I am _not_ ,” Bastila exclaimed, shocked.

“It is rather flattering.” His grin was nothing serious, and she could nearly relax. “I shouldn’t let my guard down. That’s no way for a Sith to behave.”

His expression so warm, trusting, wanting, as he ignored her. “But a date’s a date.”

Bastila grimaced.

But remained relatively ignorant, she would confess, much latter. Even after he motioned to a not-terrible quartet the Jedi had remained ignorant. Instead of slapping him and storming out, finding the nearest Jedi Temple and begging sanctuary, Bastila remained to sip wine and eat lightly charred bantha steak with a side of light greens in a fine sweet sauce. Perhaps instead of glancing through desserts, she should have kicked him and reminded him of mutual vows they had both taken at various times in their lives. Or at least reminded him of the lectures, and manuals, and warning given at the Jedi Academy that were given when younglings turned of age.  

It was not until they were returning to their chambers, were inside the ship, and he leaned into the portway to just gaze slightly down at her—just like _before_. Or like that other time! But now both were sober mad much more familiar with one another. Bastila understood, finally. “This is a—an attempt at letting _my_ guard down--!” It was worse though. Somehow. In some way. Something more insidious.

Why had it taken her so long? With Revan, everything was a game.

Bastila stepped back.

It shouldn’t have been a complete surprise. Or, rather, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he would do this now. That’s what Revan did now. He confused and distorted things. For all his crude jokes and off-putting comments, there were also these…cloying _, odd_ stares that were so much worse.

“Your ‘guard down’?” he echoed.

“This is not an attempt at _romance_ ,” she amended. Mostly to herself. “Not even you would be so absurd. But I know you’re planning _something_.”

“Is that what you think?” He looked unimpeachable. “Maybe I just wanted to spend time with you. Doing anything. I just thought a pleasant dinner would be a nice change of pace.” Then he shrugged, and the Sith’s initial embarrassment was exchanged with a maddening amity. “We would still have fun if we spent the evening chasing tak or watching you frighten my pilots with your Battle Meditation.”

As though her powers were nothing more than a plaything. “You think that’s entertaining?”

“Sure.” It was unnatural how boyish he looked when shrugging. An innocent man, oh, he could never commit a war crime or cause a schism in a group of peacekeepers or create an assassination droid that followed you around and reminded you that no matter how fast you might duck, it had quite exceptional aim.

“We will never be more than—than common allies, Revan,” Bastila exhaled. “No matter how hard you try to convince otherwise.”

“I’m just having some fun with you, Bastila. Since you insist, I will agree: it wasn’t a date. I didn’t even get a good night kiss.” A wilted smile.

“I am a Jedi,” she reminded him.

His amusement finally fled and settled the muscles around his mouth and eyes, and she felt her throat tighten. He was curious. “And if you weren’t?”

“I won’t leave the Order. No matter what _you_ might have done.”

He looked into her eyes, languid. “And if you had never been a Jedi?”

What an odd question. “We would have never met, and would never be having this conversation. It’s a moot point.”

“I guess that’s true. Neither of us can have emotional attachment. No matter who that might be. But, just hypothetically, if you were never a Jedi. _Hypothetically._ If we met and neither of us…? Or if we had met in a different time, when Jedi were permitted such things?”

What a _question_! “…probably not.”

“Damn.” He looked so down and surprised and aware. In the light, his irises were molten. His laugh only made her all the more uneasy. “You remain ever so stubborn.”

No, no, Revan would never -- “Oh, you’re just trying to confuse me and trick me into letting my guard down.”

“How am I doing that?”

“By taking me on some sort of...romantic evening.”

“How would you know what dates consist of? Bastila.” Revan gave her a reprimanding stare. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“You are impossible.”

“I’m actually very easy. For you, anyway.” Thankfully, Revan did not let that linger, and she could convince herself that had been joking. And really, what had such a joke meant anyway? What exactly? _Anyway_.

Revan continued, mercifully, “But that’s not important. Now, tell me all about the string of broken hearts you’ve left behind.”

She was exasperated. “There have not be any.”

“Of course.” He slapped his forehead. “You spent what, years, in the Republic. Probably _dozens_ of men waiting for you to return to their arms. Waiting in vain.”

Humor was just his way of dealing with things, Bastila had surmised. He would always try to ease the mood with a joke. At least with her. She doubted Revan was so cheerful dealing with his underlings and with those Jedi had captured. 

And, if she would ever allow herself to think Revan might have a moment of genuine feelings for her, well, Bastila would just have to be stronger, for him. She had not spent years honing this balance of instinct and restraint, mastering her emotions, just to forget herself with—no. What was she even saying? Of course not. She would sooner believe in the frightening tales of childhood and sea monsters that rose from the waves to carry off bad little girls.

“Are you going to your own chamber now?” She asked. Her voice was high for some reason.

Revan stood there, solemn. “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Shan.”

Bastila seethed. “Not ‘ _seriously_ enough’! It’s not enough to see and deal with you and the other Sith on a constant basis? To be on this ship, as your plaything? I choose this, every day.”

“As though you would be _anything_ without this war,” he snapped. “You owe me _everything._ What would you be if not the Republic’s lapdog, the Padawan with the Battle Meditation?”

How could he say that? And that Battle Meditation was the only reason he even cared for her, was it not? 

“The Jedi hardly fought to keep you there. You’re not even an _important_ pawn, in the scheme of things.” His eyes glittered as his lips peeled back to show teeth, a furious _inhumor_ , and Bastila wondered who else might have seen this side of him. If it was the last thing they saw.

A lump stuck in her throat, and she was terrified to realize that it was not fear she felt, but simple _pain_. Something childish recoiled, and wanted to whisper, _no that’s not true, not fair, I thought we were getting along_. Bastila crushed that voice as her throat tightened.

“You weren’t even worth fighting for. Your Order chose the Republic over saving you. And they expected you to go along with them, as a pathetic hostage.” Revan sneered, a horrendous twist to his mouth. “And you _did_.”

Her hand found the familiar control for the door. It flew open. “If that’s all I am, then surely you won’t care if I leave then.”

The last she saw of Revan that night, he was standing there, face still revoltingly contorted, still in stolen Republic soldier garb.

The Jedi locked the door behind her, and believed that he wouldn’t break in. Why would he? He’d already harmed her enough this evening. And she had let him harm her.

She tore off her filthy Sith clothes, kicked and pushing them to the ground. She wanted to yell or at least hiss in frustration. Go back to argue more, as she had with Republic officers that doubted her, or with her Master over an assignment. Fight and fight some more until she was even more sick of him and his _face_. Until what, she changed his mind or worse, just accepted what he said. 

He wouldn’t apologize.

Oh no, wouldn’t admit he was wrong. Not really. Revan would find a way to twist it around. Like when their ship had been attacked, and Revan had been nearly kind after, making sure she was fine. But then he’d also made sure to stick a jibe in, having HK escort her around and ask her if she needed extra help, someone to carry her about or perhaps just check for wounds she may have missed?

Bastila didn’t know much how partners or Bonds or relationships exactly, but she knew something of _marriage_ , and _arguments_.

It was a wonder they didn’t have more. She had saved him and seen him in a moment of weakness, and he was a hideous Sith that had declared war on the Republic and Jedi. Revan had put a bounty out for her. She had openly challenged him once during an interview after Palanhi when she’d forgotten herself after helping win that battle. Her Master had chastened her harshly for her recklessness, telling her such bravado was of the dark side. Revan’s arrogance had no bounds. Why should they ever get along?

They were too different.

Yet this felt too familiar, from a different lifetime. She’d been a small child then, peering up or perhaps down as her parents fought around her. Sometimes about her as well. It was enough to make her uncomfortable, the comparison. She and Revan were nothing like her parents. The argument they’d shared had been completely dissimilar from the ones her mother might have spoken of with her father. Bastila had hardly thought of her family in years beyond just in passing, and even then it was her adventurous father she wondered about. It had been years since she had even seen them...

Bastila brooded as she was not supposed to have. His words still stung. She could hardly stand to talk to the Council, and speak in curt tones about his latest attempt at rattling her and how it had affected her so. It wouldn’t! It shouldn’t.

The Jedi Padawan had gone without speaking to him for a significant period of time. But now she couldn’t imagine _not_ speaking to him again. She didn’t want him to be angry at her, to treat her with such disdain, and refuse to talk to her. It was the Bond, Bastila supposed. And the fact that her fellow Jedi were very far away, her Master was gone, and the Republic soldiers here impersonal and wary. Who else was there to speak to? Who else could understand? 

He wouldn’t apologize.

Soon she could leave. She had agreed to only travel with Revan for so long. He should still honor that. Perhaps he would be glad to be rid of her. Bastila had nothing to offer him, besides her Battle Meditation, and she had thus far only used that to protect both their lives. She was still Bastila Shan, Jedi Padawan, and with little to be ashamed about. This was not her fault. None of this was her fault.

She told herself that before she went to sleep, and when she got up to make sure.

This was her room temporarily, and her quarters still.

New, unwanted abhorrence crept into her chest as she saw him seated there in the kitchen. Her nostrils flared and all her senses took in everything before her. Tea as some sort of sick offering. Grain bread and bantha butter and an arrangement of fresh fruit. Her favorites in a bowl, recently washed. She _hated_ him. She hated him so much. To be given a _present_ , and assume she would take it and forgive and move on.

Bastila would not accept that.

She stalked through, wanting to ignore the food, ignore him. Or throw the food at him. She would make her own tea and breakfast, free from Revan’s taint.

He spoke, slowly. A voice of a man trying to calm a spooked animal, reassure a hysteric civilian to move away, to inform the Council that you were indeed in agreement with their decision. He spoke to the wall behind her, and Bastila doubted he was truly looking at her. “You are not my plaything, Bastila. You’ve made that very clear.”

“That’s not an apology,” she pointed out. She looked at the stiff shoulders. He had said he was sorry before, but no Bastila wondered. He had planned that, after all. Perhaps that had been a lie, to lure her into believing her had a conscious still. Besides, there had been witness. Revan had wanted a crowd to see him checking on the status of his captive, keeping her dry and saying something reassuring to silence her worries.

And the jokes after. The slimy smile and lingering glances. Oh, do you need my help in some way?

“What do you care what I think about you?” Revan’s eyes met hers. “You said we would never be more than common allies.”

Something tight in her chest loosened. “Is _that_ what this is about?”

“What?”

“I spurn your romantic advances.” She would not blush, not now. “And you lash out. It’s quite juvenile.”

Revan was speechless. Bastila took pleasure in the silence, and seeing the jaw fall just a little open. She was glad his eyes were wide, all the better to see her calm. She hoped she had his full attention. She hoped he couldn’t look away. 

She took an Almakian apple.

“That’s what you think last night was about?” he asked, slowly.

“Yes. I think that’s a neat summary.” She took a bite into the apple. It was quite delicious. And was that some muja fruit?

“Are you so egotistical--?”

The Padawan nearly dropped her apple, spinning around to face him again. “ _Me_!? _I’m_ the one with the ego?!”

“You're the one who thought this was her big audition for 'Masterhood.'”

She had thought they had agreed to never discuss that night. They had _agreed_! It had been very mutual. “ _Must_ you be so frustrating? I admit, I had a moment of foolish pride. But I'm over it. Now I am focused on my true responsibilities.”

“Which are?”

A not-unfair question that he had no right to ask.

The yellow in his eyes gleamed. “Is it being a Jedi? Or my bride? Do you know the answer to that? You should. You started this, Shan.”

She retorted back, leaning forward and coming in closer to where he sat. “I did not. You did when you made your proposal and insisted on having me here. And then wanting…” More. Things she could not begin to understand fully.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” A faint smile. “Does it involve your obvious attraction to me?”

Liar. She breathed in and out. Fool. “I see you intend to be childish about this.”

“Do you want to give me another lecture?” Revan looked away, towards his mug of tea, bored. “Will that make you feel better, to tell me of the dangers of the dark side.”

Bastila couldn’t resist. The evidence was so self-evident. “Your actions have had terrible consequences, for you and the galaxy. And with our Bond, I might be harmed as well.”

He scoffed. “So you only care so long as it affects you.”

“That’s not true.” She frowned. “Your powers could have been a great gift to the galaxy.”

“They have been. Even if you can’t see it.”

She stood before him, a scant distance separating them. “There are so many things we can do to help the galaxy. Things that don’t require violence.”

“Now you’re speaking nonsense.”

“There are!”

Revan was less unsettling now. She could expect to see him now, thin, not particularly tall or remarkable except for the intense sheen of his eyes and stark profile of his nose in that thin face. He had a cleft chin and clever hands and stark eyebrows. Small pointed ears that amused her occasionally, high cheekbones and deep dimples in his cheeks when he grinned and laughed. Bastila could nearly see that younger man there, the Jedi Knight, the good man he must have been at some point.

Familiarity bred contempt but might create trust as well. If false and temporary. Bastila wanted to believe that they could form some partnership, until this Bond and their marriage might be resolved when peace had become the status quo. Then Revan tried to swipe her fruit away. She recoiled. “Get your own.”

“You have the last one.”

“Did you eat the other ones?” In _her_ gift? “You don’t even like these.”

“You don’t know what I like,” he retorted mildly. “I could enjoy them quite a bit. Enough to overlook your bite marks and germs.”

Bastila could cut pieces off for him, but she knew it was all a game. “ _No_. It’s mine.”

“Greed is not becoming for a Jedi. Sacrifice is part of the doctrine. Hand it over, Shan.”

When HK came in and found them, somehow in the living quarters, her on the couch holding the fruit overhead while he threatened to pick her up and flip her onto the ground for what was rightfully his apple, the droid appeared unsurprised. He was becoming familiar too, this assassination droid with his pitiless red gaze. But not as much as his Master, whom she allowed one bite of the Almakian apple, baring that he kept his own germs to a minimum. 

He would not apologize. But she believed he regretted saying those remarks from before. She wanted to believe that he saw no benefit to harming her in any way, and would curb his crueler remarks rather than increase the tension between them. He sent notes to her datapad, reminders, taunts, suggestions such as sitting up straighter because the old sergeant over there hadn’t looked at her chest enough (she sincerely doubted that the man had even glanced at her!) or perhaps ask if she wanted something in particular for dinner that night. There was already enough friction at times, enough contact. It was something unwanted, but it lingered between, in long stares and a brush of his cloak as she hurried past and when he handed a datapad to her during a meeting. She avoiding sparring with Revan again, and he did not push the point.

Sometimes, Revan didn’t seem to know what to do with her. And sometimes, often, she didn’t know what to do with him either. Sometimes she feared what they might do with each other. It might involve another bodily fight, with sweat on their skin and hands wanting to find purchase, or they might meet across from their lit blades that spit sparks at each other’s faces. Or it might recall the night she had drunk too much, and his hands had been on her back and hers on his face, and then her imagination was mercifully dark. 

The Bond created a certain intimacy. For them both.

He requested her presence into his room one evening, or rather, had his assassination droid bring her the formal message and promise that he wouldn’t use the new flamethrower that hung from his shoulder on her. Despite her doubts, Bastila went to see him. If she hadn’t, she figured, he would just hunt her down or she’d find him again in her room, making a fuss for ignoring him. She lingered around the hallways outside his chamber to buy time.

What _could_ Revan want? Another offer for a holocron from an ancient Sith Lord? Perhaps a book on the ancient Jedi and of a temple long lost. Another invitation to dinner that never went well. He’d made HK a friend: HK-48. He was going to apologize to her for every cruel act and word to her, let their marriage lapse, and give her a fresh chocolate cake. Revan would want a duel, to the death. The Sith Lord would be seated there, on the floor, He was renouncing his claim on the galaxy and the Sith, and would return to the Jedi shortly. He had made her a flamethrower as well. Bastila sighed, and knocked.

He was packing, and she was alarmed, delighted. Was he going somewhere? Was she allowed to leave as well?

Revan waited for her question. She saw he had two bags before he _flung_ one at her head. “I am going to save the galaxy. Will you come with me?”

 

 


End file.
